


Life's Little Splinters

by thepinupchemist



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Human, Children, Family, Family Dynamics, Family Feels, Family Issues, Gabriel Has Issues, Gabriel had a shitty childhood, Gabriel has made some poor decisions, Implicated Child Abuse, Kid Fic, Kids, M/M, Mary Lives, Parent Dean, Parent-Child Relationship, Parenthood, Single Parent Dean, Single Parents, Slice of Life, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Social Worker Castiel, mentions of drug use
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-30
Updated: 2015-01-24
Packaged: 2018-02-11 02:59:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 40,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2051019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thepinupchemist/pseuds/thepinupchemist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An unexpected phone call lands Dean with a kid he never knew he had, and an embarrassing crush on their social worker in one fell swoop. Rebuilding a family for Ben Braeden isn't easy, but Dean is determined to make up for nine years of absent fatherhood. Finding a partner in crime along the way just happens to be a bonus.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. We Go Back

**Chapter Track: Heart it Races (cover) – Dr. Dog**

**_We Go Back_ **

Dean Winchester didn’t know that he had a kid until that day. He was knocking a couple back with Benny on his couch after the looong-ass day they’d had at the shop, and life was good. Damn good. He had family and friends a soft place to sleep, and damn it; that was all he needed. Mom thought otherwise, thought he could do with a significant other of some kind.

Dean’s just not cut out for that crap.

Sammy, he’s always been the one that wanted to settle. He has Sarah and they have their brood and their dogs and their white picket fence life. Dean ducks into it when he wants to, and dips out when it’s done. He’s _Uncle Dean_ , and there’s nothing better than hearing little voices getting all excited when they say that title.

 _Uncle Dean_ garners even more excitement than _Grandma._

Dean remembers Benny chuckling at something on the TV seconds before the phone in his crappy little kitchen rang.

“Brother, leave it,” Benny said, “Relax. Take the night off.”

Dean had thought that Benny would be right, that the caller would be Sam asking for free babysitting as the phone calls placed to Dean’s apartment almost always were.

It wasn’t.

“Yup?” he said.

“Am I speaking to Mr. Dean Winchester?” a low, growly voice asked from the other line.

“Sure are.”

“Mr. Winchester,” the voice went on, “My name is Castiel Novak. I’m calling from child protective services, and I have your son.”

**X**

That’s how he ends up in a stuffy cubicle, staring gape-mouthed at a kid – _his_ kid – tapping away on some handheld whatsit. To his right, the social worker is suited up and laser-focused on some paperwork in a manila folder spread out across his lap. Dean coughs to announce his arrival. The social worker wheels around to face him, and the kid –

 _His_ kid –

glances up from his game. He looks Dean up and down, and seems unimpressed.

“Mr. Winchester?”

“Yeah,” he manages. His mouth is dry, his throat is parched and his brain is spinning. He’s got a son.

“Have a seat,” replies the social worker, blue eyes piercing. Dean obeys, and the guy closes his folder before he goes on, “Thank you for being here on such short notice. As I said on the phone, my name is Castiel Novak.”

Castiel holds out his hand and Dean shakes.

“Good,” nods Novak, “I’m sure you’re wondering what’s happened. I’ve gathered that you didn’t realize that you have a son.”

Dean shakes his head, but can’t find it in him to form words. He’s too concentrated on his kid, how he’s got Dean’s ears and nose but his eyes are different, not green, but kind of hazelly-brown. His kid looks back, and it’s terrifying. He doesn’t smile, or frown, or do anything, really.

“Lisa Braeden passed away due to complications of her cancer,” Castiel says.

Before he can go on, Dean says, “Lisa?”

“Yes, Lisa,” says Castiel, “Do you recall having relations with her?”

“Yeah, a’course,” Dean says. Lisa’s the closest he’s ever gotten to loving a person outside of his family. She was smart and sexy and million times better than what Dean deserved, but he loved every second of the time they spent together. Thing is, Dean always got restless as dumb kid. He spent most of his twenties bouncing from place to place, settling in for a couple months at most, and then moving on. He’d spent the most time with Lisa in Wichita – five months – before he turned tail and took off.

Dean left in the middle of the night so he wouldn’t have to say goodbye.

And he left her with a kid. _His_ kid.

“She had cancer?” Dean weakly manages. He feels like his stomach’s ready to drop right out of his ass, like everything inside him is knotted up and tangled.

“Yes, she did,” Castiel replies, “And her son – Benjamin – has no living relatives. On his birth certificate, your name is listed in the space provided for the father. I’ve been assigned to your case, to ensure that you’re fit to care for a child. Do you have appropriate space at your residence for Benjamin?”

“Uh,” Dean says, “I – ah. I can clean up the spare room for him. I guess tonight he can take my bed and I’ll do the couch.”

Castiel turns to scribble something onto a yellow legal pad on his desk. He hums something under his breath before he says, “You’re single, then?”

Out of habit more than anything, Dean says, “Depends who’s askin’,” but his smile wilts when Castiel glares at him.

“Now is not the time for comedy, Mr. Winchester,” he says, “Please answer the question.”

“Yeah. I’m single.”

“Occupation?”

“I’m a car mechanic,” he says.

“Full time?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You don’t need to call me sir,” says Castiel, “Castiel will suffice.”

“Right. Sorry, Castiel.” The name’s a mouthful. It feels heavy on Dean’s tongue.

“I’m going to turn Benjamin over to you for the night,” Castiel tells him, “His belongings are in his backpack. Will you be available tomorrow evening for a visit? I’d like to inspect your house.”

“It’s an apartment,” Dean says.

“Nonetheless, I need to do my job,” Castiel responds, “Is six o’clock amenable to you?”

“Um, yeah, six is fine.”

“Excellent,” Castiel says, and swivels on his office chair to the kid, “Benjamin, does all of this sound all right to you?”

“Fine,” is all that Benjamin says. He closes his game and sticks it into the pocket of his jeans before he slides off of the chair. He heaves up a blue backpack from the cruddy carpet. All of Ben’s stuff is in that one little backpack? The knowledge weighs down on him.

Dean and Benjamin don’t talk when they climb into the elevator, remaining silent and avoiding eye contact for the short space of time it takes to lower them from the third floor to the first. That’s when Dean works up the courage to talk to his own damn son.

“So, uh, Benjamin –”

“It’s Ben,” he says, “Only Mr. Novak calls me Benjamin and it’s ‘cause he’s weird.”

“He’s not that bad,” Dean says.

“I didn’t say he was bad,” says Ben, “I said he’s weird.”

“Right. You wanna stop at Walmart for some munchies before we head home?” he asks. Dean’s pretty sure his cereal collection is made solely of children’s brands, but that’s kind of all he’s got stocked up besides beer. He can’t exactly feed a child with Lucky Charms and Bud.

“I guess so,” Ben shrugs, “Do I have to call you dad?”

The question is a punch to the gut. Dean scratches the back of his neck as they tread out to the parking lot and toward the Impala. He takes a second to mull it over before he responds, “Nah. You can call me Dean if that feels better.”

“Okay.”

Thankfully, the arrival at Dean’s car diffuses the awkwardness. Ben reaches out to touch the side of his baby and glances back to Dean, eyes wide, “Is this your car?”

“Yup. She’s pretty cool, isn’t she?”

“She’s _badass_.”

Dean fidgets and wonders if it’s his job to tell his nine year old son that he’s not allowed to say ‘badass’, and decides that it’s a debacle for another day. He’s not gonna start nitpicking over this poor kid, not when he’s just lost his mom and he’s being shipped off with some stranger. Family goes deeper than blood. Dean knows that better than most – and he knows that when you haven’t had a dad for the first nine years of your life, he ain’t a dad at all.

Dean has no friggin’ clue how the hell he’s supposed to make up for that. It’s not like Lisa could’ve told him. Dean left without leaving a trace of himself at Lisa’s. No way to contact him. Nothing. Now he finds himself wishing in the shadow of guilt that he’d given her something. A number. An e-mail. Hell, even just a note to tell her goodbye.

Hindsight’s always 20-20.

Since he’s working on fixing nine years of being a crap dad, he lets Ben pick the music. Instead of a pop station like Dean expects, Ben leaves the radio where Dean has it already – classic rock. At least the kid’s got some taste in music.

They drive the few minutes it takes to reach the Walmart between the social services offices and Dean’s apartment without speaking again. Dean hums along to AC/DC to calm his nerves and tells himself that he’s gotta be a rock for this kid. He can’t be wishy-washy and selfish. He can’t be like his dad was to him.

Alongside the few things Ben picks out (A huge bag of dinosaur chicken nuggets, some Twizzlers, and a pack of mini Gatorades), Dean wheels them to the furniture department and throws in the box of a twin-sized bed. He’ll need a mattress for the fucker too, but at least with this he has something that he can cross off of his list.

“You need clothes or anything?” asks Dean.

“I have clothes in my backpack,” Ben tells him, “But I left my toothbrush at – at my house.” He stumbles over the last words and his face sort of crumples, looking nothing short of devastated. Dean’s sure that he’s about to have a crying kid on his hands, except that that’s not what he gets at all. Instead, Ben takes a deep breath like he’s sucking it all back in, straightens his back, and walks toward the toiletries like nothing happened at all.

After that, it’s a blur. Dean pays for the goods, loading plastic bags into Baby’s trunk and doing some tetris-like shit to cram the bed frame box into the backseat. It’s silent again, and this time Dean thinks that maybe they should keep it that way for now.

He pretends not to see the look of disappointment on Ben’s face when they park in front of Dean’s building. It’s not bad. It’s a decent joint. The complex is old but tidy, and (he silently sends a thank you to the universe) it’s in a safe neighborhood. But it’s nothing magical, and it definitely wouldn’t have made it to the list of places Dean wanted to live when he was Ben’s age. When Dean and Ben reach his place and Dean flicks on the light, all he can get out is, “Well, this is it. Home sweet home.”

Ben doesn’t say anything.

“You’ll bunk in my room tonight, ‘kay? I’ll get cracking on a room you can have to yourself when it’s not nine at night.”

“Okay,” says Ben.

“You hungry? We can make some of those chicken nuggets we got,” offers Dean, “Or, I’ve got cereal…and soup, I think.”

“I’m okay,” Ben says.

“If you’re sure,” Dean says, “This time of night is usually bedtime, right?” Awesome. He’s asking his own child what time of the night bedtime is supposed to be.

Ben shrugs.

“All right, um…right. This is bedtime now,” Dean says, “Nine. You wanna change into your sleep stuff and brush those pearly whites?”

Dean thinks this is where kids are supposed to argue. He’s pretty sure that he and Sam protested bedtime and teeth-brushing, anyway. But Ben doesn’t do any of that. He just lets Dean show him to his bedroom and closes the door, emerging a minute or so later in a matching shirt and pants patterned in rocketships. It reminds Dean just how young this kid is, and that makes how much crap Ben’s been through in the last twenty four hours that much worse.

Dean watches Ben struggle to reach the faucet in the bathroom and turns on the water for him, and looks on as he gulps down a glass of water. He sort of tucks Ben into bed, if standing awkwardly and announcing ‘so, you can crash here for now’ counts as tucking in.

As soon as the bedroom door is closed, Dean makes a beeline to the fridge to extract a beer.

Only a few minutes after that, he hears his son quietly crying himself to sleep.

**X**

The crying goes unmentioned in the morning.

Dean’s up well before Ben, and uses the time to brew himself a pot of coffee and dig his heels into sorting out the mess that is his spare bedroom. Most of it is crap he was too lazy to unpack when he moved in, vinyls and comics and family photos that don’t have a home. He gives some of the crap a home on his mostly-empty bookshelf, tucking records into the tallest shelves and comic books in on their sides. He’ll have to find something better than that later.

He tacks up some of the pictures on his refrigerator and tapes a couple more onto blank spots on the wall, smiling at memories of his and Sam’s first bikes, and the subsequent fall that landed Dean with a broken arm in a cherry red cast. He remembers how awesome he thought his cast was, though.

“Dean?”

Dean jumps, and turns to see Ben rubbing the sleep from his eyes with small fists.

“What’s up, kiddo?” he asks.

“Do you have breakfast?” he asks.

“Yeah, breakfast is my favorite,” Dean grins, finally glad that he at least has something that he can give this kid. He opens up his pantry cabinet and ticks off the options one by one, “I’ve got Lucky Charms, Frosted Flakes, Cheerios…I think there’s some Cap’n Crunch back there somewhere.”

“Can I have Frosted Flakes?” Ben asks.

“That sounds pretty dang good actually,” Dean says, “I’ll pour us both some bowls.”

Dean doesn’t really have a kitchen table, as he was a bachelor with no tethers until last night. Mostly he just eats on the couch with a dish in his lap and Dr. Sexy reruns on. So he’s not surprised when he hands Ben his bowl of cereal  the kid asks, “Where should I sit?”

“Uh…” Dean starts. Smooth. “Let’s camp out on the floor and eat on the coffee table. You got any favorite TV shows?”

“I like Adventure Time,” Ben says.

Dean has no idea what that is, so he plays it cool and shows Ben how to work the remotes so he can find his show by himself. Dean, meanwhile, sets his coffee maker to brew its second pot of the morning, because shit, if there’s one thing that requires a 50-gallon drum of caffeine, it’s clearing out your junk room to make way for the son you didn’t know you had until a few hours ago.

That revelation hits Dean hard enough to knock the wind from his lungs, and he finds himself braced against the kitchen counter so that he doesn’t topple onto the linoleum.

Fortunately, Ben’s too absorbed in the glow of the TV to have noticed Dean’s bumbling.

Dean’s hands are shaking. He doesn’t know if it’s from the coffee or from the freight train of realization that just slammed into his body.

Of course, that means that there’s the sound of a key scraping in his door knob, and as Dean’s coffee starts to flow down and fill the pot, his mother steps into the apartment. Mary Winchester: Queen of Impeccable Timing.

“So, you have a son,” she says.

Dean glances over at Ben. Ben isn’t looking at the television anymore. He’s staring straight at them, looking as though he doesn’t know whether he should make a break for it or not.

“How the hell did you find out?” Dean asks.

His mom rests a hand on her hip and lifts her brows in that way that makes Dean feel like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. She says, “A Mr. Novak contacted me while he was looking for you. I was the one that gave him your phone number. And don’t you take that tone with me. You’d think a man in his thirties would know how to talk to his own mother.”

Aw, crap.

Dean spares another look at Ben and then lowers his voice. He says, “Look, I’m just as shell-shocked as you. I don’t know what I’m doing. To him I’m the dirtbag that ditched his mom, who died of _cancer_ , by the way, and now I’m supposed to take care of him and raise him. I’m scared, okay?”

“Oh, honey,” Mary says, and rests a hand on Dean’s shoulder, rubbing gently, “All new parents are scared. You’re a little late, but that doesn’t mean that you won’t be able to do it right. I came over to see what I can do to help.”

Dean blows all the air out of his lungs and runs his fingers through his hair. Shit, he doesn’t even know. He says, “I guess it’d be good to get some extra hands on deck to get his room all set up. I’ve been clearing stuff out all morning and it still looks like I haven’t done a damn thing.”

“You want me to call your brother?”

“Christ, no,” says Dean, “You know he’ll never shut up about this. I’ll be lectured ‘til my ears fall off.”

“I can always tell him that he’s not to say a word about it,” says his mom, “unless it’s regarding how your son’s room looks. Benjamin, right?”

“He goes by Ben,” Dean says.

“Could I meet him?” she asks.

Dean sighs. When Sam started reproducing, his mom had been over the moon. And that made Dean happy, because he hadn’t seen her smile nearly as much until then. She was lonely. Now she’s got three – well, now four, he guess – grandchildren to spoil, and she’s taken to the position like a duck to water. She was always a good mom, but she’s a freaking awesome grandma.

“Hey, Ben?”

Ben pretends that he wasn’t listening.

“Ben?”

“What?” Ben says back.

“C’mere and meet somebody,” Dean says.

Ben does, and takes his empty bowl with him. He keeps his distance, standing a few feet away from Dean and Mary. Dean wonders how long it’ll be like this, having a son that’s always ready to run if he needs to. It makes Dean feel brittle inside just thinking about how he can possibly fix that, but he pastes a smile on his face anyway and says, “This is my mom.”

Ben squints at her and says, “Does that mean you’re my grandma?”

“Sure does.”

“You don’t look old enough to be a grandma,” says Ben.

Mary laughs and takes a step toward Ben. She leaves him his space, but crouches down to his level and says, “That’s a very nice thing for you to say. I’m so happy to meet you, Ben. You can call me grandma if you want, or something else if you feel better about that. My name’s Mary, if you want to use that.”

“That’s okay,” Ben says, “I’ll call you grandma. I’ve never had a grandma before. My mom’s parents died before I was born.”

Before he can help it, Dean feels a stab of jealousy that Ben has taken so easily to Mary but still shies away from Dean. He knows it’s stupid to feel, but he can’t help it.

Mary helps Ben tuck his dish and spoon into Dean’s dishwasher and then tells him with a light pat to his back that he can go back to watching his cartoons whenever he wants. And as soon as Ben settles into the couch, she turns back to Dean and says, “I brought some things over. Thought you might need some help.”

“Thanks, mom, really,” Dean says, and leans into her for a hug. Despite the fact that he’s nearly a foot taller than her and much broader, he still rests his head on her shoulder like he’s a younger version of himself and lets himself be coddled.

“I made some lasagna for you boys,” she tells him as she rubs his back, “It’s in the van with all the other junk I brought over.”

“Great, more junk.”

“Good junk. I have some of your old books and that tub of all your legos. I thought about bringing action figures but He-Man looks a little dated.”

“A little?” Dean chuckles, finally extracting himself from his mother’s arms.

“Okay, a lot. I’m assuming that don’t have a bed for him?”

“I bought a frame last night,” Dean says, “Still need a mattress and sheets and stuff. Figured he’d wanna tag along for that, so he can pick ‘em out himself.”

His mom smiles and says, “You’re a good boy, you know that?”

“Ma, cut it out,” he mumbles, but the compliment still sends spikes of warmth bursting in his chest.

Of all the people in the world, there are very few that Dean thinks are smart, and even fewer that Dean thinks are wise. His mom is one of the handful that is both smart and wise – her praise matters to him more than his dad’s approval ever did.

Jesus, he’s quaking in his boots. Not even twenty four hours ago he thought he was living the good life, that he had his shit together, and that for once the world seemed to be on his side. Now there’s a little boy in his apartment, a little boy that has Dean’s ears and nose…and Lisa’s smile. When he looks back up at Ben on his couch, his chest is a maelstrom. His heart is slinging shit everywhere – fear, uncertainty, shock – and there are so many that it’s impossible to pick out how he’s really feeling.

There’s one part, though, that he’s already got down. Among all that fear and the sticky feelings of guilt and mourning, there’s warmth. It’s love. He knows that. Sometimes Dean still has trouble telling the people that he loves that he loves them, a leftover from his dad’s A+ parenting. But whether or not he says the words out loud, he knows when he’s got that feeling.

And when Dean laid eyes on Ben, it was over. He loves his kid. He has no idea who his kid is, and doesn’t even know yet if he likes the squirt.

But Dean does know that he loves him.

**X**

When the cavalry comes, Sam gives Dean a pointed look that without a doubt reads _you and I are going to talk about this and not even Mom can stop me_. Dean rolls his eyes and pretends that he didn’t see Sam’s dumb expression over the boxes in his spare room.

With three pairs of hands, getting everything sorted proves to be much easier than it was with Dean alone, and by lunchtime, the room is clear. It smells musty and needs to see the business end of a vacuum pronto, but Dean thinks it ain’t half bad for three hours of work.

“We should go out to eat,” suggests his mom, “maybe that pizza place by the furniture row?”

Dean wipes sweat from his forehead with his arm and says, “Yeah. Yeah. Good idea,” and realizes that his consent is no longer the end-all be-all. He needs to ask his kid if that’s cool with him, too.

They find Ben in a massive puddle of legos. His brow furrows in concentration as he builds some intricate kind of house-looking-thing. Whatever it is, it’s better than all the random crap that Dean and Sam made. It’s – impressive.

“Hey, kiddo,” Dean greets.

Ben looks up.

“We were thinkin’ we’d get pizza before we grab all the stuff for your new room. How’s that sound to you?”

“I like pizza,” Ben says simply. There’s something about the way that Ben is quiet that makes Dean shift uncomfortably. He feels like this kid maybe wasn’t always the quiet type, was more of a spunky type – there’s a spark that rears its head already every so often, in the form of smartass remarks, mainly.

“Awesome,” Dean says, “Let’s go grab your sneakers. You got a jacket or something? It’s looking kind of cruddy outside.”

“I have a hoodie,” Ben says, “I forgot my coat at the house I lived in with my mom.”

Dean should probably look into retrieving the rest of Ben’s stuff from his and Lisa’s place. Maybe he’ll ask Castiel how they can pull that one off. For now: “We’ll get you a new coat. You should probably start thinking about any other stuff you might need that you left. I’ll talk to Castiel and see if we can’t grab your old things, though.”

The party bundles up against the edge of the late autumn cold, and instead of the Impala, take Mary’s old Ford, so they can use the truck bed to move the bigger crap that they’ll have to buy. Sam takes shotgun, and Dean sits in the back with Ben. Ben doesn’t look at Dean as they drive, just stares out the window, but Dean looks at Ben. He seems pretty tall for being nine, something he could only have inherited from his Winchester roots.

God damn.

Dean frowns. He thinks of Lisa doing everything alone, giving birth to a kid with no partner in crime to cheer her on and take care of her when she needed it.

But his frown turns to a smile when he realizes that if anyone could handle raising a child alone, it would be Lisa. That was one of the things he’d liked so much about her; she didn’t take no for an answer, and she didn’t back down. She’d take the bull of single motherhood by the horns and ride that motherfucker into the sunset.

Dean doesn’t mention any of this, just sits on the thought as they pull into the lot behind the pizza parlor.

Ben likes his pizza meat lover’s. Neither Sam nor Mary say the words “just like your dad”, but Dean knows they’re thinking it when the waitress takes their order for a large pizza, half loaded with pepperoni and sausage and all the good stuff, and the other half covered in whatever veggie crud Sam and Mom are into.

Ben opens up to Dean’s mom way more than he has to Dean. Dean tries not to take it personally. He and the kid haven’t even known each other for twenty four hours, and nice old blond ladies are pretty non-threatening in comparison to big, long lost dads. It doesn’t help that Dean barreled into the CPS offices last night looking like shit and smelling like the beers he’d been sharing with Benny. He’d thrown on his old leather jacket and biker boots in his haste.

It’s no wonder Castiel Novak sat there looking at Dean like he crawled out of a sewer. Dean had looked every inch a deadbeat dad.

The weight of knowing he has to fix this somehow rests heavy on his shoulders.

“Dean?”

“Mm?”

“Your pizza’s getting cold,” his mom says. It’s code for ‘are you okay?’

“Huh? Oh, yeah.”

With that, Dean eats his pizza and listens to Ben tell Mary all about outer space, about crazy things that scientists have discovered and how cool it is. Kid’s got smarts.

Ben definitely picked _that_ up from Lisa.

After lunch, Sam wins the battle over the bill and covers the meal, and they walk the short distance from the pizza joint to the furniture shopping center. The first stop is the most boring – the mattress place. They pick up a twin mattress to match the frame that Dean bought last night, and then move onto the fun stuff in the kids’ section of the furniture store next door.

It’s a good thing that Mom invited herself, because she takes the reigns and helps Ben pick out a dresser and a bookcase and a bedside table – all kinds of junk that Dean wouldn’t know a kid could need.

This time when Mom tries to pay the bill, Dean cuts her off and says, “No way in hell, Ma. He’s my son, and I’m paying for his stuff.”

Dean isn’t sure what the expression that she gives him means.

Sam and Dean load the furniture boxes into the back of the truck one by one, stacking them together so that they know that they won’t slide and bang around in the truck bed. Dean shrugs off his leather jacket by the time that they’re done and mops sweat from his forehead.

“Now we get to do the really fun crap,” he tells Ben. Ben looks uncertain, but the suspicion lifts when they arrive at Target and Dean tells him to pick out sheets for his bed. Against Mary’s wishes, Dean helps Ben up into the red plastic cart and they run together through the aisles until they come to a screeching halt in the bed and bath department.

“I want the Star Wars ones,” Ben says, and glances back at Dean, “Can I have Star Wars sheets?”

“Sure thing, kiddo,” Dean says, and pulls the twin set into cart alongside Ben.

Somewhere around the décor aisle, Ben asks to be lifted out of the cart so that he can see things better, and disappears around the corner while Dean pokes through sets of curtains. Sam helps – he pulls down a set of red curtains and explains, “They’ll match the accents on the Star Wars bedding.”

“Thanks, Martha Stewart.”

“Shut up,” Sam snips back, and shoves Dean’s arm.

Dean stumbles and laughs. It’s the first time that he hasn’t felt totally tense all day.

A lamp, a rug, and a spaceship-shaped toothbrush holder later, Dean feels a tug on the back of his t-shirt. He turns and sees Ben holding something to his chest.

“What’s up, dude?”

Ben holds out a package of those glow-in-the-dark stars you stick to the ceiling. He’s quiet – so quiet that Dean has to lean in to hear him – as he asks, “Dean, can I have these?”

“Stick ‘em in the cart,” says Dean.

Ben lights up like a dang Christmas tree and drops the stars on top of the plastic curtain packaging. He smiles, all toothy and childlike, and it makes Dean smile too. He’s always liked making his nieces and nephew smile, but this feeling is kind of different. He loves his brother’s kids, but Ben…Ben is Dean’s baby.

Dean didn’t get to see him as a little pink wrinkled newborn like he’s seen Sam’s kids. He didn’t get to see Ben walk or hear him say his first word or teach him how to ride a bike. But he made Ben smile now, and damn it, that should be a step in the right direction.

After they’ve paid and roll the cart out to Mom’s truck, Ben tugs on Dean’s shirt again. Dean leans down just in time to hear Ben say, “Thank you, Dean.”

**X**

The room is barely finished when Castiel-the-social-worker knocks on the apartment door. Ben runs to answer it before Dean can, and exclaims, “Mr. Novak, come see my new room. It’s _awesome_.” Before Castiel can get a word in edgewise, Ben grabs his hand and starts dragging him toward the newly refurbished junk room.

Dean follows in time to hear the tail end of Ben saying, “– and then I got to pick out my sheets and I got Star Wars, and Dean told me I could have glow-in-the-dark stars. See, we put them on my ceiling. Oh, and grandma brought us lasagna and it was really really good even though she had to put it in the oven to heat it up. And guess what?”

“What?” responds Castiel’s voice.

“My uncle Sam – he’s Dean’s brother – he says there’s a natural history museum at the college and that he can take me and my cousins. I haven’t met them yet, though. My cousins, I mean. Uncle Sam says I have three.”

“That’s very good news,” Castiel says, “Does that mean that you like it here?”

“I think so,” answers Ben, “I didn’t at first ‘cause – ‘cause I miss my mom. But Dean is pretty okay and I like my new grandma and uncle too.”

 _Pretty okay_ isn’t exactly a sterling review, but Dean’ll take ‘pretty okay’ over ‘my dickhead deadbeat dad’, which is who he’s started to see when he looks in the mirror. He’s so wrapped up in the thought that he doesn’t hear Castiel turn the corner, thus making the poor dude run smack into Dean.

“Listening in?”

“Caught,” Dean says, knowing that there’s definitely no way out of this one.

“I need to speak with you in any case,” says Castiel.

“You want some coffee or something?” Dean offers.

“Coffee would be wonderful. Thank you.”

Dean leads Castiel back to the small kitchen and offers him a seat at the brand new kitchen table. His mom insisted that he get it, as ‘he can’t have his son eating breakfast on the couch every morning, and she’s certainly not serving lasagna on his coffee table, blah, blah, blah.’ Dean goes through the motions of starting up a pot of coffee and swallows his nerves to ask, “So, what’d you need to talk about?”

“To start, there’s the matter of Ben’s education,” Castiel says, “Have you looked into the elementary schools of the area?”

“Uh –”

“I understand that you haven’t had much time to spare, but you need to prioritize his schooling. Your apartment is within the district lines for Pine Bough Elementary, and that’s a good school.”

“Cool,” says Dean, “That sounds good, then.”

“You’ll make sure to finish his enrollment?”

“Yeah, a’course.”

“Good. I’d also like you to tell me how his first night went,” Castiel says.

The coffeemaker beeps and Dean shuts it off. He pours two mugs of coffee and asks, “How d’you take yours?”

“Black, please,” Castiel responds.

Dean sits across from Castiel and passes him the mug. Before he answers Castiel’s question, he takes a sip of his own coffee. It puts a jump in his veins but behind that he still feels his own weariness. That doesn’t matter now, though. Dean has a kid, and kids come first.

“It was okay, I think,” says Dean, thumbing the rim of his mug, “He seemed kinda…out of it, you know? He didn’t want anything to eat and he went to bed right when I said it was time, no questions asked. He, um. He cried, though. After I closed my door.”

Castiel exhales and says, “Good.”

“Good?” echoes Dean.

“I’m told by the nurses at the hospital that he welled up as soon as his mother was gone, but he hadn’t cried since,” Castiel says, “I’m relieved. It wouldn’t be usual for a child not to cry over the death of a parent, particularly when that parent is the only one that they’ve ever known. It sounds like today was better, correct?”

“I’m pretty sure. He likes my mom a lot, and his new room’s a lot better than crashing on my bed,” Dean says.

“I’m impressed at your quick response, Mr. Winchester,” says Castiel.

“Dean,” he corrects, “Just Dean, man.”

“Dean, then. I’ll admit I was…wary when we first met, but your action is among the quickest I’ve ever seen, especially considering that you’re a bachelor, and not a grandparent.”

“My brother’s got kids,” Dean says, and then sighs, “but I guess this is pretty different. I’m really freaked out, Cas.”

Castiel lifts his brow at the nickname but doesn’t comment. Instead, he says, “That’s normal. And you won’t be in it alone. It seems that you have a strong family behind you, and you’ll also have me. For the first month, I’ll be visiting twice a week. If I like how I find Ben’s condition then I’ll wean you from my visits over time. I’m here to help. That’s all.”

“You think I’m gonna be a crap dad? I guess right now, I already am.”

“I highly doubt that you will be a ‘crap’ father,” says Cas, punctuating with air quotes. He leans back in the kitchen chair, sips at his coffee and says, “I’ve been doing this work for over ten years, now. I’ve seen case after case and at times it seems that more often than not there are too many people not fit to raise children in this world. You didn’t stick Ben in a sleeping bag between some boxes. You made him his own room, and filled with things that he picked, at that.”

“That reminds me,” Dean says, “You think Ben could go back to his and Lisa’s place to pick up some more of his stuff? Maybe I should help clean stuff up? Did she leave anything to anybody?”

Cas shakes his head, “The only beneficiary in Lisa’s will is Ben. I’d be more than happy to escort you both to the property to do whatever needs to be done.”

“Whew. Good.”

With a glance at his wristwatch, Castiel stands. He says, “I think it’s about time that I left you. You’re off to a solid start. I doubt that this will be easy, but I’d like you to know you’ve done everything right that you could.”

Dean doesn’t know what to say to that, so he walks Castiel to the front door and waves him off with a polite goodbye. When the door closes between them, Dean presses his back against it and makes himself breathe. If the social worker says that he’s getting it right, then it’s gotta be true, right? But even knowing that, Dean still doesn’t feel quite right.

When he toes over to check on Ben, the kid is curled up around his pillow on his new sheets, still wearing his clothes from the day. He looks so small. Sure, he ain’t a baby, but he’s still a kid. Still learning. He shouldn’t know what it feels like to lose somebody yet. He shouldn’t have a no-good dad that didn’t know he even existed until yesterday.

Feeling heavy, Dean pads across the freshly vacuumed carpet and reaches for where Ben’s Star Wars comforter is folded at the end of the bed. He lifts it up and gives it a shake to undo it, and then rests the blanket over his son. He hesitates to leave, fidgeting at Ben’s bedside for just a moment before he decides his work is done.

“Sweet dreams, kid,” Dean murmurs at the doorway, and flicks off the light.


	2. We've Made it This Far, Kid

**Chapter Track: Migraine – Twenty One Pilots**

**_We’ve Made it This Far, Kid_ **

Dean’s been a dad for like – two seconds, and he decides already that his least favorite part of parenthood is filling out the thick stack of paperwork that accompanies sticking your child into public school. He has to think of ten million emergency contacts and has no idea if Ben is allergic to anything (when he asks, Ben answers ‘cats’ – Dean realizes that this trait is one passed down from the Winchester line and feels weird all over again), but moreover he has to answer the same three things over and over on about fifty different colors of paper for different offices.

Was it like this when he went to elementary school? Dean sure hopes not, but if it was, he’s nominating his mother for a whole new level of sainthood.

The whole thing makes Dean hot under his collar with anxiety. He’s never had to do this shit before, and though the paperwork seems straightforward it simultaneously feels as though he could be filling out something wrong at any given moment. He texts Sam to complain, but Sam just sasses him back instead of sending support, the douche.

Dean’s mom helps, at least. She clues him into the fact that he can schedule some kind of meet-and-greet with Ben’s teacher so that she’ll understand their family situation, and know what boundaries not to cross. Dean’s still trying to figure out how the hell he’s going to handle Mother’s Day, and he’s not even to goddamn Thanksgiving yet.

His son’s teacher is named Ms. Bradbury. On paper it’s a nice name, but some primal and protective part of Dean won’t believe that this fourth grade teacher is decent until he’s had a conversation with her that convinces him otherwise.

On the morning of Ben’s first day of school, the kid is less than enthusiastic about getting up earlier than he needs to so that they can confer with his teacher. Even Dean’s bribery breakfast of bacon and eggs doesn’t shut him up. Ben grumbles all the way to the Impala, but doesn’t go quiet until he’s buckled in.

He slumps down against the leather seat, and Dean says, “Look, Pouty McWhinerson. It ain’t gonna be that bad.”

“You’re only saying that because _you_ don’t have to go,” accuses Ben, and fair enough, Dean doesn’t have to attend the fourth grade again. Thank God.

So Dean doesn’t bother countering that argument, especially after he realizes that he’s spent his entire morning bickering with a nine year old child.

Pine Bough Elementary is quiet when they arrive, only the few scattered cars of the school staff parked in the lot outside. Ben makes a big show of getting out of the car – dragging his backpack, rolling his eyes, huffing while he follows Dean to the front doors – but eventually they do make it inside, where a nice-looking lady in a red cardigan is sitting in the attendance booth up front.

“Hi,” Dean says, awkwardly.

“Can I help you?”

“Uh…yeah. I’ve got a thing set up with Ms. Bradbury?” Dean can hear the uncertainty in his own voice and tries not to wince. It’s probably clear as goddamn day to any outsider looking in that Dean is new to the job of fatherhood, and that on top of that his natural instinct for parenthood is slim to nil.

“Mr. Braeden?” she asks.

“Uh,” Dean says.

“ _His_ last name is Winchester,” Ben butts in, “ _My_ last name is Braeden.”

This garners a chuckle from front-desk-lady, and a, “Well, my last name is Mosely. But you can call me Missouri. Ms. Bradbury’s classroom is just around that bend to your left. It’s gonna be just past the turkey paintings.”

“Turkey paintings. Right.”

Ben takes the lead after that. Apparently, Dean’s kid is better at figuring out the layout of an elementary school than Dean himself is, which is both fortunate and embarrassing. The turkey paintings (handprints decorated with tempera paint, feathers, and buttons that the artists seem to place indiscriminately over the bodies of the birds) lead the way to the one classroom in the hallway with the light already on.

Dean raps his knuckles against the open door.

“Oh, hi there,” a cheery redhead greets. She stands and circles around from her desk, and offers her hand as she says, “You must be Ben’s dad?”

“Um. Yeah,” Dean says. The words are heavy on his tongue.

“Which makes you Ben,” she says, and she crouches lower, down to Ben’s height to hold her hand out for the kid to shake, too. She says, “I’m Ms. Bradbury. I’m pretty excited to have you in my class.”

“No you’re not,” accuses Ben.

“Dude!” exclaims Dean.

“What?” Ben says, and glares, “I’m just telling the truth.”

“You’re being a Negative Nancy, and that’s different than the truth,” Dean points out, “See, Ms. Bradbury’s got the Starfleet emblem on her necklace. You told me you like Star Trek. That means there’s already something that you like about your teacher.”

Ben doesn’t say anything.

Neither does Ms. Bradbury, so Dean offers, “I’m Dean Winchester.”

“Charlie Bradbury,” she says, “I’ve gotta say, I don’t always have new students meet with me first. Most of the kids I’ve had just dive on in.”

“About that,” Dean scratches his neck, “Me n’ Ben have got an interesting family situation. We kinda didn’t know each other until a couple days ago. His mom passed, and…well, I found out that I’m somebody’s dad. He just moved in with me and we’re still trying to get our footing, you know?”

“I call him Dean,” Ben says.

“Don’t either of you worry at all,” Charlie says, “We have all kinds of different families at Pine Bough, and even in this class we have lots of different families. So Ben, I want you to know that my door is always open. We can chat about anything. And Dean, I promise that Ben will be in good hands. What kind of stuff do you like to learn about?”

The last question is directed at Ben, and Charlie’s on his level in the next couple of seconds.

“Um. Science.”

“Neato,” says Charlie, “We’re right in the middle of a weather unit right now. Today we’re gonna be talking about different kinds of clouds. Does that sound like something you might like to learn about?”

“Maybe,” Ben says, unsure. But, after a few more sentences exchanged between Ben and his teacher, it seems like he’s taken to Ms. Bradbury all right.

With a glance to the clock and a bob of his throat, Dean says, “All right, I’ve gotta take off to work. You gonna be okay, man?”

“I was fine without you before,” is the cutting response that Ben gives him. Dean would be lying if he said that didn’t hurt. Sure, he fucked up, but he’s not that bad, is he?

“Uh. Yeah. I’ll see you after school. Have a good day, kiddo.”

Dean doesn’t really get a response to that, so he shoves his hands into the pockets of his jeans and turns to head out the classroom door. He waves goodbye to Missouri before he pushes out of the front doors and stalks to his car. When he clambers into the front seat, he sits for a while. He doesn’t turn on the engine or buckle himself in, just stares ahead at the school, someplace between irritated and dumbstruck.

This is really happening.

Every time that Dean thinks that the revelation has sunk in, he comes to some new fucking stumbling block that has his panties in a twist. Today, it’s taking his kid to school for the first time, and also essentially being told to fuck off by that same kid. He rubs his temples and blows all the air out of his lungs.

Dean has never been one of those people that thinks kids look easy. They always seemed difficult, screaming when they’re hungry, running rampant in grocery stores like they run the joints, shrieking when they’re happy, shrieking when they’re pissed – and even still, this is so much harder than he would have expected.

Dean’s son hates him, and that’s already the exact opposite of what he ever wanted in his life.

When other cars and kids start to arrive, Dean finally straps himself down and rolls toward Singer Salvage & Repair. At least at work he has something of a safe haven.

Or so he thinks, until Bobby appears in the locker room while Dean’s zipping his jumpsuit over his clothes and announces his presence with a friendly, “How’s it goin’, papa?”

“Not you too,” groans Dean, “How the hell did you find out?”

“On what planet would your mama not tell my wife when you magically have a kid?”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” mutters Dean.

“You watch your tone, boy,” Bobby says, “I’m only here to offer my help. I prob’ly know what you’re feelin’ better than most. Jo was six when me and Ellen got hitched, remember? It ain’t a cakewalk just having a kid one day. You need somebody, or a babysitter, or whatever, you let me know.”

Dean’s shoulders slump under the weight of Bobby’s words. He says, “Sorry, Bobby. I’m struggling here, but I shouldn’t have snapped at you. It’s just that my son hates me and I feel pretty crap about that.”

“He doesn’t hate you,” Bobby says.

“How do you know?” asks Dean, “You’ve never even met the kid.”

“Because I raised a kid, and some things you just know,” says Bobby, “More than likely, he thinks you’re an idiot, but that doesn’t make him different than any other kid. He’s just gotta warm up to you, find some common ground. It’ll happen. Just do your damndest and you’ll make it okay.”

“I sure as hell hope you’re right,” Dean says on a sigh. He shakes his head and scratches his fingers through his hair. He mock-salutes when he exits the room and makes his way toward their bullshit coffee maker – normally Dean wouldn’t touch the gritty crap that comes out of the beast, but today he’ll take his caffeine anywhere that he can get it.

At least at work everything is business as usual. As soon as Dean treks out into the garage, mug of crappy coffee against his mouth, Benny shouts at him that there’s a lady up front complaining about a rattling noise and to get on it. In the garage, he can drift off to a different place, buckle down and focus on the task at hand, and forget that the entire last weekend ever happened.

By nine he’s fixed a loose heat shield on his first customer’s Subaru, given her a half-price oil change for being a first time visitor, and has his arms under the hood of a Ford Focus that’s definitely seen better days. For one, the battery’s corroded to hell, and not in the you-could-fix-this-with-coke-and-a-toothbrush way. Poor little car’s way overdue for some TLC.

This project takes a little longer – and a little convincing on Dean’s part that there are parts that need replacing, and yes, they are going to cost a bundle, but that the bundle is still cheap at Singer than it would be at any other place in town.

When lunch finally swings around, Dean is covered in grime and grease, and has sweat trickling from the back of his neck and past his collar, rolling between his shoulder blades. He makes sure to roll the sleeves of his jumpsuit to the elbow and wash up before he touches any food.

Microwave steak & potatoes isn’t the best meal on the planet, but it tastes like heaven after old-fashioned hard work. Dean tops his meal off with another cup of terrible coffee, keeping in mind that he’ll need the caffeine to deal with whatever attitude Ben has got when he picks him up this afternoon. Bobby gave him the go-ahead to take off early today, but after this, Dean’ll need some kind of babysitter or something.

Maybe he’ll ask Ellen if she’ll take Ben at the Roadhouse, give him a corner table where he can play his video games or do homework or whatever.

After lunch, Dean dips his hands under the hood of a cherry-red Honda Accord. He’s only been fiddling for a minute or so when Bobby ducks into the garage and holds up the office phone. He says, “Got a call for you, Dean. Think it might be your kid or somethin’. They said they’re from Pine Bough. You wanna take it?”

Aw, crap.

Dean wipes his hands on the front of his jumpsuit and says, “Yeah, I’d better,” and takes the phone from Bobby to answer, “Dean Winchester.”

“Mr. Winchester, this is Linda Tran. I’m the principal at Pine Bough Elementary. I have your son here in the office with me,” a feminine voice on the other line answers.

“Did something happen?” asks Dean.

“We had an incident occur at recess today,” Linda replies, “Benjamin struck another student and broke his nose.”

“ _Broke his nose_?” Dean repeats, incredulous. What kind of nine year old has enough power behind his hook to break a nose?

“Yes, broke his nose,” Linda confirms, “As I understand it, this other student said some unkind things about Benjamin’s mother. While we don’t tolerate bullying in this school, we also have a zero-tolerance policy regarding violence. Benjamin will be suspended from school for three days. Are you available to pick him up, or should I contact your mother or brother, as listed on his paperwork?”

“Uh,” Dean manages, “Just a sec.” He looks up and finds that Bobby never left, the saint.

Clutching the phone against his chest, Dean says, “The kid’s gotten himself into some kinda mess. Is it – I mean, would it be cool if I called it a day to go grab him, or should I call my mom?”

Bobby shakes his head, “Go ahead and take care of your kid. But you’ve gotta get somethin’ figured out for him, ‘cause I can’t have you cutting out of work like this all the time. ‘Specially not now that you’ve got your son to pay for in the first place.”

“I know,” Dean says, “I’ll figure it out. I might ask Aunt Ellen if she’ll take him after school for a couple of hours.”

Bobby makes some vague motion with his hand, and Dean puts the phone back up to his ear to answer, “Yeah, I’ll come get him. I’ll be there in fifteen or so, give or take.”

**X**

They have Ben on a stiff-looking armchair in the principal’s office, a neat room tucked behind the administration desk. When Ben sees Dean, he glares, and then looks to the ground.

“Hey, kiddo,” Dean says.

Ben doesn’t respond, but the door to the office does swing open. A short woman with a tidy bob clicks in on low heels before she leans back against her desk. She folds her arms over her chest and says, “You must be Mr. Winchester.”

“Uh, Dean’s fine,” says Dean.

“Dean, then. I’m Linda Tran,” she says. They shake hands, but as soon as their fingers drop back to their sides, Linda looks over at Ben and asks, “Would you like to tell your father your side of the story?”

Again, Ben doesn’t say anything. Dean feels his frown deepen, but he doesn’t egg his kid on. If Ben wants to tell his side of the story, he’s sure that he’ll get an earful as soon as they’re out of the way of the principal.

Linda sighs and says, “As I understand it, Benjamin’s classmate Tyler made some remarks about Ben’s mother. Your wife?”

Dean’s face colors at that. He scratches the back of his neck and says, “No, ma’am. Me n’ Ben have some unique circumstances.” He goes on to tell Principal Tran about their ordeal, straining to keep each word careful and polite. Dean doesn’t want to make this any worse than it already is, so he’s gotta do his best to keep himself in line.

Linda nods along while Dean relays the story. When he finishes, she says, “I see. Those are unique circumstances – you’re right. I’ll make a note of it in Ben’s file so that we know this in case of any future altercations. Regardless of circumstances, however, we can’t allow Benjamin to scrape by without consequences, especially since a student was injured. I’ll need to you sign his suspension paperwork and take him home. The official count of the suspension will start tomorrow.”

“Right. Of course,” Dean says. He lets Linda lead him to her desk and sits down to read through the papers. Like the pile of paperwork he filled out for enrollment, it makes his gut roll with unease, knowing that he’s doing something that is very distinctly the job of a parent. At the bottom of the sheet of paper, past an explanation of the suspension and a handwritten incident report both in an adult hand and the writing of a child, a line sits beside the words _Parent Signature._

It takes Dean a moment to make himself sign there, scrawling out his name in terrible cursive. As soon as it’s all done and over with, Dean still has to sign both himself and Ben out at the attendance desk. Missouri smiles at him and he gives her a weak smile back. At least the people in this joint are nice. Dean doesn’t remember the principal or teachers or anyone else at his schools being as nice as the staff here is being.

The silence between Ben and Dean lasts about halfway through their commute from Pine Bough to Dean’s apartment. It’s Dean that breaks the silence, with the question: “What the heck happened back there?”

“None of your beeswax,” Ben says.

“Hey,” Dean snaps, “FYI, kid, it’s all of my damn beeswax. You can’t just go around hitting kids, no matter what they say about your mom.” Dean fails to mention that he got in trouble for fighting probably more than any other kid at his schools, finally dropping out when he earned a week-long suspension for tackling a guy that called Dean a fag ‘cause he kissed Aaron Bass under the bleachers.

Fuck that guy. He probably woulda kissed Aaron too, if he knew how it felt to have Aaron’s ass in his hands.

“You’re not the boss of me,” says Ben, “You keep acting like you can tell me what to do but you can’t. I don’t _know you_. And you don’t know me! You’re a butthead and I hate you. I want my mom back.”

Anger sizzles in Dean’s stomach, lifting the hair on his arms and at the back of his neck. He grits his teeth, tries to remember that this kid just lost his mom and that it’s not his fault he’s so angry. But damn it. You don’t just get to talk to your dad like that, whether or not you know them.

“Watch it, Ben. I am father and you will not take that tone with me, do you hear?”

“I _said_ you’re not the boss of me.”

“Damn skippy I’m the freakin’ boss of you!” Dean exclaims, slamming his hand down on the steering wheel. Ben flinches at the movement, but Dean goes on, “I became the freakin’ boss of you when Cas handed you over to me. I’m your dad, and you will listen to me when I tell you that you can’t just go hitting kids.”

The red light in front of them turns green. Dean accelerates faster than he needs to. He’s tense from his neck down and now he knows exactly what his mom means when she says that sometimes she could have strangled Dean as a boy. It’s this weird, awful feeling, loving some short human and wanting to shake them until they listen all at once.

A shaking breath comes out of Ben’s lungs, and _aw, crap_. The kid is crying. Huge, fat tears roll down his cheeks, and he sobs. His shoulders shake and Dean’s urge to smack Ben upside the head dissolves into wanting to make sure he never sees his son cry like this again.

“Ben –”

“Tyler said that my mom is probably happy she’s dead because she wouldn’t want a weirdo kid like me,” Ben gasps.

Oh, hell no.

“He said _what_?” Dean demands, “That little asshole. I swear on my life –”

“And now you’re being mean to me too and I’m all alone,” Ben weeps.

Dean parks the car outside the apartment building. Before he can even shut off the engine, Ben is out of his seat and halfway across the lot. Harried, Dean locks the car and jogs after him. Ben ignores him calling, and instead of waiting for Dean, he uses the building key that Dean gave him to open the front door and disappear around the corner of the front stairwell.

By the time that Dean makes it inside the apartment, Ben has already blown through it, leaving his backpack by the door and his socks and shoes by the floor. His bedroom door is shut, and behind it Dean can still hear Ben crying.

He knocks and says, “Buddy –”

Only to be interrupted with, “Go away. Just leave me alone. I hate you.”

The anger from before doesn’t return. Instead, Dean just feels a sweeping sadness come over him. He failed his kid, blamed this whole thing on Ben, and didn’t even hear him out before he pointed fingers. He’s no better than his own dad, John freaking Winchester, the man that always painted Dean as being in the wrong.

Dean exhales and leans his forehead against Ben’s bedroom door. He says, more quiet now, “If you need anything, just come get me. I’m really sorry, okay?”

Ben doesn’t answer, just sniffles. Dean takes it as his cue that he’s overstayed his welcome.

Numbly, he wanders out to the common area of his apartment, and slides down into one of his new kitchen chairs. Dean rests his face in his hands and builds a dam against the anguish and self-loathing that bubbles up and swallows him all at once. Seems like – no matter how hard he tried or well he meant – that he was just destined to fail at being a dad.

**X**

Castiel’s looming second visit to the apartment sends Dean into a cleaning frenzy of dusting and organizing and polishing and dish-washing. He leaves no corner untouched, and hell, with Ben ignoring him, he’s got more than enough time and concentration to dedicate to the task. In general, Dean isn’t actually a messy dude. Sure, it’s not _immaculate_ , like the way that his mom does things, but spending his wayward twenties packing up and leaving just as soon as he arrived in a joint laid the groundwork for neatness. He never wanted to get caught taking off.

Goodbyes are, and always have been, too difficult for Dean to suffer.

He’s sweating now.

It feels like the ball has got to drop, that Castiel is going to have to notice that Dean is unfit to be a father. He’ll take Ben away and put him someplace else. If Dean’s lucky it’ll be with Mary. If he’s not lucky, Ben’ll be shipped off to foster care and live with a bunch of strangers.

Before Dean can pull himself together, the buzzer goes off. It’s Cas, of course, asking to be let up to the apartment. A couple of minutes later, there’s a knock, and Dean lets him in.

Castiel’s gaze sweeps across the apartment. He remarks, “It is very clean in here.”

“I…yeah. Spring cleaning.”

Cas’ brows furrow and he cocks his head. He says, “It’s November.”

“November cleaning, whatever,” Dean says, “You wanna talk to the kid?”

“Yes, please,” Castiel says.

“Cool. Um. He’s in his room,” Dean says, “He won’t let me in, but maybe he’ll talk to you. He got suspended from school on his first day.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“He hit a kid,” says Dean, “and I kinda screwed up, man. I treated the thing like it was all his fault and it turns out this pisshead little kid told Ben that Lisa’s probably glad she’s dead because Ben is weird or something like that.”

“Good god.”

“Yeah.”

“I’ll speak to him,” Castiel says. He rests his hand on Dean’s shoulder. The gesture is brief but it makes Dean a little fuzzy in the head and dry in the throat – and oh, shit, he thinks Cas is hot. Dean is pretty sure that of all the stupid shit that a guy can do (and he is an expert on being a guy that does stupid shit), getting a hard-on for his social worker is at least in the top ten dumb-ass choices.

Dean doesn’t have time to dwell on this before Cas peels away and knocks on Ben’s bedroom door. Whatever happens next between the two Dean figures is private, so he backs off. He tries to distract himself, picking up the remote and flicking on the TV, but while his eyes remain trained on the screen, he doesn’t pay attention.

He doesn’t even notice that several minutes have passed until he hears the sound of Ben’s bedroom door opening and closing once again. When Dean looks up, he sees Cas, but there’s still no sign of his son.

“How is he?” asks Dean.

“He’s upset,” Castiel replies, “but he did mention that you apologized to him.”

“I tried, yeah,” Dean says, and runs his fingers through his hair, “I just – I’m no good at being a dad, man. I already love him, like hell, you know? And I’m already messing him up, too.”

A deep frown turns Cas’ lips down. He hesitates for a moment before he walks over and joins Dean, lowering himself beside him. Castiel says, “All parents make mistakes, Dean. The key is that you must admit to them. You’ve taken that step already. The next is to strive not to make the same mistake again. Perhaps if Ben makes trouble again, you should ask him how he is feeling. Ask him why he did what he did, and not as an accusation.”

“Damn it, Cas,” Dean says, “You don’t get it. This is – it’s like my dad. I’m even worse than my dad. He never – I didn’t listen. Just like he didn’t.”

“You are brand new at this job,” Castiel says, “Sometimes parents struggle to listen. But it isn’t a sign of being a bad parent. It’s a sign of learning. You want to be good to Benjamin, so you will be. I’ve worked with dozens of families and I know when a parent is willing to put forth the necessary effort. You are among those.”

Dean doesn’t know what to say.

“Let me give you my personal number,” says Castiel. He removes a palm-sized notebook from the inside pocket of his suit jacket and a pen from the outside pocket, scrawling out a phone number and passing it to Dean. He explains, “This way, you can call me at any hour on any day, and I’ll be available to answer you. If you feel in situations such as Benjamin’s suspension that you’d like my presence, I’d be more than happy to accommodate you.”

Dean stares at the crinkled slip of paper in his hand before he glances back up to Cas. He can feel his smile come out all awkward-like, lopsided and slow, and says, “Thanks, man. Seriously. You’re an angel.”

Castiel cocks a brow and says, “I’m no angel, but I appreciate the sentiment. I think it’s about time for me to leave, but don’t forget, if you need anything at all, you are welcome to call.” Dean watches Cas straighten his collar and follows him to the apartment door. They shake hands there, and Dean finds himself almost leaning into Cas.

He coughs and pulls away.

“Goodnight, Dean,” says Cas.

“See ya, Cas,” Dean says back, and waves Castiel out the door.

Dean hovers for a minute after he closes the door, and then sighs. He only has enough energy and brain power left to collapse back onto the couch and rub his hands over his tired eyes. He wants to believe all the things that Cas said to him, but it’s hard to think something of yourself when all you’re doing is messing up.

After he hit his thirties, Dean decided he wasn’t going to go for the whole having kids thing. Before that, he’d always told himself that he would never, ever treat his kids like his dad treated him. Now a kid poofs into his lap out of nowhere, and all he’s got in his arsenal are John Winchester classic fuck ups.

“Dean?”

Dean jumps and sees Ben a a couple feet from the couch. They haven’t spoken in over twenty four hours – this is a little surprising. He clears his throat and manages to even out his voice enough to say, “Hey, bud. How’re you feeling?”

“I’m okay,” says Ben. He studies Dean, and after a moment, deems it safe to climb up on the couch and sit all the way at the other end. He holds his hands in his lap and asks, “Where’s your dad at?”

“My dad?” Dean says.

“Yeah,” says Ben, “You talked about him to Mr. Novak. How come I’ve never met him?”

“Well,” Dean says, “He’s in a hospital.”

Ben’s eyes go rounder. He whispers, “Like my mom?”

Dean wets his lips with his tongue and replies, “Not exactly. My dad’s in a different kind of hospital.”

“Is he sick?”

“Sort of,” says Dean, “A long time ago, my dad went to fight in a war, and he came back real sad. No one knew ‘cause he didn’t tell anybody he was hurting. So to make himself feel better, he started drinking lots and lots of alcohol. That’s the kind of dad that I knew when I was little. He was pretty mean, but it wasn’t ‘til after me n’ Uncle Sammy were all grown up that your grandma decided split up with my dad.”

“You mean they got a divorce?” Dean was on the late side of his twenties, still on his bender of sex and vagrancy. Sam already had Sarah and a kiddo – a kid that John had hardly interacted with.

A wry smile twists Dean’s lips. He responds, “Yeah, they got a divorce. That made my dad a whole lot sadder, and he drank so much that one day, he hit a kid with his car.”

There’s a sharp intake of breath from the other end of the couch.

“The kid turned out okay, don’t worry,” Dean says. Instinct has him reaching over to give a reassuring squeeze to Ben’s arm. The fact that Ben doesn’t flinch away makes Dean’s insides feel just a little lighter, his mood less foul. He goes on, “My dad had to go to a courthouse, and they told him that he needed to go to special hospital where people that drink lots go to get better.”

“Oh. What do they do there?”

“That’s where my dad lives now,” Dean tells him, “it’s where he eats and sleeps, and they give him people that he can talk to so he can start to feel better.”

Ben considers this. Then, instead of continuing the same line of questioning, he surprises Dean by asking, “Did your dad help you decorate your room?”

“Nah, your grandma helped me.”

Ben stares for a long second.

Then he asks, “Can we watch Batman?”

Dean smiles, “Sure, kid.”


	3. Then She is Gone

**Chapter Track: Losing Lisa – Ben Folds**

**_Then She is Gone_ **

Dean tries his damnedest not to make it personal when Ben takes to Ellen and Jo like a duckling imprinting on its mom. Soon as Dean brings Ben into The Roadhouse bright and early before he himself has to head to work, Jo offers the kid a slice of just-out-of-the-oven cherry pie.

“Hey, what about me?” Dean complains, when Ben trots after Jo toward the kitchen.

“Soon as you’re nine and you’ve just lost your mama, we’ll talk,” Ellen says, “Sounds like things are a little rocky, boy.”

Dean scratches the back of his neck and replies, “Yeah, he misses Lisa…and, well. You know. He got stuck with me for a dad, and I’m guessin’ that ain’t that fun either.”

Ellen replies to this with a smack to the back of Dean’s head and a firm, “Don’t you talk about yourself like that, Dean Winchester.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

At this he hears a laugh, and sees that Ben and Jo have returned just in time to see Ellen hit him and Dean sucking up. Ben is smiling where he’s half-hidden behind Jo’s jeans with a plate of pie in his hands. They’re big hands for a nine-year-old, but little enough that it stirs up some of the tacky guilt sticking to Dean’s bones over this whole shit-show.

Fortunately, Ben doesn’t seem to notice. He wanders toward one of the back tables with Jo. For a moment, Dean just watches Ben shove forkfuls of pie into his mouth and talk animatedly about something-or-other. Whatever it is, it’s got the kid still smiling like he’s won the world, so Dean decides not to step in.

“Look like you got something on your mind,” says Ellen.

The look on her face makes Dean’s stomach turn. Ellen gets worried about her family, a group Dean knows she counts him a part of, but it’s not the kind of worry that crops up every day. Her arms are folded over her chest and her brow is furrowed. Dean opens his mouth to laugh her off, but instead he shrugs and says, “Got lots of stuff on my mind recently.”

“Yeah, I don’t blame you,” says Ellen, following Dean’s gaze to Ben and Jo in the back of the restaurant, “You just gotta remember to take time for yourself still. Ben needs you, but he also needs you to be in good shape. You’re not gonna be in any kind of shape to be raising a boy when you’re stressed sick.”

“How the hell am I supposed to take time for myself?” asks Dean.

“Me n’ Jo can babysit, for one,” Ellen says, “and I’m sure your ma would love spending time with her grandson. You don’t need to hover over him to take care of him. A kid’s gotta learn.”

A hot zap of anger whizzes through Dean and he snaps, “Don’t you think he’s had to learn enough already? His mom is dead and _I’m_ his dad.”

Only when Dean glances over to see Jo and Ben staring at him does he realize how loud his voice is. No longer does Ben wear a smile on his face, and Jo’s got that doe-eyed expression on her, the way she does when she thinks Dean needs a hug or to “talk about it” or whatever the hell Jo wants him to do to feel better.

“Fuck,” he mutters.

Ellen places a hand on Dean’s shoulder and steers him out of the Roadhouse. Outside, the snapping cold of late autumn bites through Dean’s clothes. He shoves his hands into his pockets. Without speaking, Ellen drapes her arm over Dean’s shoulders and draws him in for a tight hug. She holds him there for a long moment before she lets him go and says, “Don’t you dare treat yourself like that. You’re too hard on yourself. I know you got leftover John telling you that you ain’t worth the time of day and that you’ll screw up, but that’s just John, Dean. That’s not you. You didn’t blink an eye when you got called by that Novak man, did you?”

No, he didn’t. Before Dean could even hang up the phone, his feet were already halfway into his shoes and he was tripping toward his jacket. Didn’t matter that this is the first he’d ever heard of his son, didn’t matter one bit. Family is family. That’s the way it’s always been, and it’s the way that it always will be. His mom tells him it’s that attitude that has him “clinging on” to his father’s old words, to arguments they had when Dean was a baby-faced teenager, to the things that Dean heard John yell at Mary when they thought that their sons would be asleep.

Dean doesn’t even realize how far he drifted off to outer space until Ellen rubs her palm over his shoulder and squeezes. She reassures him, “You went right over and you got your son. It’s tough being a new daddy but you’re already doing just fine.”

“Whatever you say, Ellen.”

“Exactly,” Ellen says, and pats his back, “Now you get your behind to work, or I’ll never hear the end of it. Try and have a good day for me, will you?”

Dean offers a weak smile and says, “I’ll do my best.”

He maintains that smile as long as he can, and lets it slip into a long sigh the second that he closes the driver’s side door to his baby behind himself. The familiar smell of leather does him some good, but mostly Dean can’t get the picture of his kid looking at him all round-eyed for shouting at Ellen. Or maybe – for _what_ he shouted at Ellen.

Damn it.

That’s how his parents always fought. They’d start out quiet, something muttered under their breath in the kitchen while Sam and Dean parked themselves in front of the TV to watch Thundercats. Minutes in, his dad would be yelling and mom snapping right back, and the volume of the television wouldn’t be enough to cover up the venom in their words.

Dean thinks his parents must have been happy once, but he also doesn’t remember when that was.

And here he is, losing his shit at Ellen just like his dad. It’s history doomed to repeat itself, and he can’t help but think that Ben deserves to be with a real dad, a good one. Sure, they’ve got blood, but when it comes down to it, family’s made up of more than just blood.

He starts the Impala and tries not to dwell any longer on his parenting ability – or lack thereof – with little success. By the time Dean’s rolled up to the back of the yard and shop, he’s all messed up all over again. He licks his lips and pulls his phone out of the pocket of his jeans. He flips through his contacts until the name stares at him – Castiel Novak.

Before Dean can talk himself out of it, he pushes down on the little green call symbol and the phone rings.

“Castiel speaking.”

Christ, how can one voice make him feel so much better?

“Hey, Cas, it’s Dean.”

“Oh,” Castiel replies, as though he doesn’t believe that it’s actually Dean on the other side of the damn line. He clears his throat and asks, “Is there something wrong? Is Benjamin all right?”

“Uh, yeah, I think so,” responds Dean, “I dropped him off at my Aunt Ellen’s place. Last I saw he was eating pie. I just – I wanted…Let me start this crap over. Did your parents ever fight?”

“Most parents do,” says Castiel, all reason.

“I mean – well, you don’t got kids, do you?”

“No, I don’t,” Cas says, “Although I do like them, obviously. It would be strange to have my position without enjoying the presence of children.”

“Well, I mean, say you’re a dad,” Dean goes on, “and you catch yourself doing something the way that your parents did, something that you didn’t like. How the hell do you go around fixing that junk? Isn’t that like, wired into your brain, or something?”

“Are you asking if you’re destined to repeat the faults of your parents?” asks Cas.

Dean’s lips twist and he hesitates to answer right away. After a sigh, he finally says, “Yeah. I guess I am.”

“I don’t think that a person’s parents automatically determine the way that person will parent their children,” Cas says thoughtfully, “but I do think that a parent has a certain influence that’s hard to throw. That I base on scientific fact and child psychology – from personal experience, I watch many people overcome their childhoods to treat their own children right. I don’t understand. You mentioned your father being lacking, but your mother seems to have made up for that. Why worry so much?”

“That’s…a heavy talk,” Dean says, and though he was the one that called Castiel he kind of wishes now that he could hang up and escape discussing his father and his past and whatever influence that may have had on his little kid psyche as a boy.

Cas hums and says, “I understand. Do you have any free time for your lunch today? We could have a discussion in person.”

“Uh, sure, yeah, we could do that,” Dean finds himself saying. His heart pumps his blood a little faster at the idea of telling Cas about the fighting, about the ever-present feeling of being _not enough_ that hovers over Dean day after day like oncoming rain. With Ben thrown into the mix, the sensation has increased tenfold, and when Dean sees himself in the mirror he sees John Winchester in the glass, damaged and angry.

“Excellent,” Cas says, “There’s a deli just off of 6th, a little place –”

“Yeah, yeah, I know it,” Dean replies, “One good for you?”

Castiel pauses and then says, “I think that would do. I can text message you if I have to reschedule. Is this your cell phone number?”

“Yeah,” Dean answers.

“I’ll save it,” says Cas, “I’m afraid that I have to go and work, but I hope that you’ll let yourself believe it when I say that I doubt you are anything like your own father, if your aversion to speaking about him is any indication about what he was like.”

“Thanks, man,” Dean says, and he genuinely means it. He’s pretty sure that social workers are supposed to be intimidating or the enemy or something, or at least that’s always how he thought it was. But Cas is a comfort, somebody to talk to and somebody that knows what they’re talking about when they talk back.

Dean and Cas say their goodbyes, and afterward, Dean only needs to take a short moment to himself before climbing out of the Impala and heading to the shop. The workday proves pretty decent. Dean doesn’t get any calls from Ellen or Jo about Ben, and the handful of customers he takes care of before he gets to break for lunch are relaxed and grateful when Dean gets their machines up and running like dreams again.

After that, Bobby gives Dean the go-ahead for lunch, and Dean doesn’t have any cancellation texts from Cas, so he heads over to the deli and orders himself a nice, meat-packed footlong (heh). He only starts to worry when he sits down to eat and notices the lines of grime underneath his fingernails, the result of working underneath hoods all morning. He washed his hands before he left the shop, but maybe he didn’t –

“Dean?”

Cas takes a seat in the chair across from Dean, dressed as usual in a suit that doesn’t quite match the wild hairdo sticking out from his head. He has a cup of coffee and a sandwich just as big as Dean’s, which Dean takes as a good sign.

“Hey, Cas,” Dean says.

“Hello,” he replies, “How has your workday been thus far?”

“Good, dude. Good,” Dean nods. He bites into his sandwich so that he doesn’t have to say anything more, but knows that as soon as he swallows that he’s going to have some talking to do, whether he likes it or not. Dean reminds himself that this lunch meetup was kind of his fault, even if it was Castiel’s idea.

“I’m glad that you’re using me as the tool I’m meant to be,” Cas slowly says as Dean chews, “Many families are about as happy to see me as they’d be to see a burglar. I think you and Ben will do well.”

Dean swallows and sighs. He says, “Man, I hope so. My dad was a drinker, and he and my mom always fought. He talked to me like – I dunno, it just kind of seemed like nothing I did would ever be good enough for him, no matter how hard I tried. I don’t wanna be that dad, but…”

“You won’t be,” Castiel assures him, “I know that there’s little I can say to reassure you. You will make mistakes and you and Ben will fight, but that doesn’t mean that you don’t love each other, or that you’re a poor father. How has Ben been sleeping? You mentioned a while back that he cries sometimes.”

Dean rubs his temples. He answers, “He still. Uh. He still cries when he thinks I won’t hear. I always wanna go in there and tell him it’ll be okay, but that bedroom’s his hideout or something, and I don’t even know if everything’ll be okay in any case.”

“Try opening the door and asking if he’s okay,” suggests Castiel, “You’re right that his bedroom is probably his safe haven, so I don’t think you should come in to comfort him unless invited.”

That sounds so logical and easy that Dean can’t believe that it didn’t occur to him before. Just open the door a little and check on him. That’s all. If Ben needs him, he’ll say so.

“If you don’t mind my asking,” Castiel says, “What happened to your father?”

“Oh. Um. He mowed down some kid while he was plastered in his car,” says Dean, “Kid was mostly okay, but the court ordered rehab. He’s been there for – eight months? I guess?”

“Do you visit him?” asks Castiel.

“I haven’t,” responds Dean, “Maybe Sam has. We don’t really talk about it.”

“Maybe it would be wise to pay your father a visit. You could tell him about Ben and talk about your concerns. If he’s healing, he may be open to conversation.”

“Yeah, I don’t think that’s happening. My dad never hears anybody but himself.”

Cas frowns at him, but doesn’t rebuff the remark. He nurses his coffee and relaxes back into his seat, looking more comfortable than Dean thinks he’s seen in Cas before. It’s weird, and appealing, and reminds Dean that he has a schoolboy crush on this dude and is very much wondering whether he’s a boxers or briefs kind of guy under his pressed suit pants.

It takes a second for Dean to realize that he’s staring at Cas’ crotch. He jerks his head up and clears his throat, occupying his hands with his sandwich.

“I’m impressed with how well you’re coping with the changes,” Cas says. He straightens himself back up again, reminding Dean of the intimidating man that he first met in a mostly-empty office building next to a little boy thumbing at a game console.

“Thanks, I guess,” Dean says, “I’m trying.”

From there the conversation shifts to smaller things, to the promised onslaught of cold weather and to holiday plans, how Castiel intends to visit his cousins with his brother, and how Dean plans on taking Ben and staying overnight with Mary, to help with all the cooking, but also to give Ben a happy Thanksgiving. Something healing, maybe. But that might be optimistic.

They part on a good note, with Dean promising that he’ll text or call if he needs Castiel for any reason, and Castiel replying that he’ll always answer.

The day wraps up with the sun barely showing behind the ridges of houses and Dean humming along to Skynyrd on the way back to the Roadhouse. When he pulls up, Ben bursts out of the front doors, a grin on his face.

“Dean!” he exclaims. Ben stops just short of hugging him, and Dean feels his chest jump.

“Hey, bud, how was your day?” Dean asks.

“Aunt Ellen is so awesome,” says Ben, “She let me help cook stuff and we made a burger that I got to eat and I helped make pie that she said we can take home.”

“Pie? That sounds pretty good,” Dean smiles, “What kind?”

“Strawberry,” says Ben, “There’s lots of sugar in it.”

“Sounds awesome, kid,” Dean replies.

Ellen and Jo come out for a brief goodbye and Dean thanks Ellen profusely for working magic on Ben and making him smile. Instead of dinner first, Dean and Ben eat slices of pie warmed in the microwave with scoops of vanilla ice cream on top. They sit and watch that Adventure Time show that Ben likes so much. None of it makes a lick of fucking sense to Dean, but he feels pretty dang good just hanging out with his kid.

It seems perfect, until after Ben is tucked into bed. Dean hears a gasp of breath, and then crying, crying like always.

Dean knocks.

“Ben, you okay in there?”

He shouldn’t be surprised when Ben just ignores him.

**X**

It doesn’t occur to Dean that there’s nobody to take care of Lisa’s funeral service until his cell rings with a confused mortician on the end other end, along a string of fruitless phone calls. She says that Lisa’s body is being stored in a morgue in Wichita and what arrangements Dean thinks should be made.

Dean doesn’t know what else to do but to ask Ben.

“She liked yellow flowers,” Ben says, when Dean asks later that night. The kid starts chewing on his fingers and Dean doesn’t have the heart to tell him to stop, because Ben deserves what little comfort he can find. Through those fingers, Ben goes on, “We should have lots of yellow flowers. Especially sunflowers. Those were her favorites. And we should find Jenn and Kathy. Those are – w-were my mom’s best friends.”

Ben’s stammer makes Dean feel tight in the chest. He rests his hand on Ben’s shoulder, but doesn’t try to hug him, or comfort him with words. Words have never been Dean’s biggest strength, especially when he wants to help. So he keeps quiet and lets Ben take in shaky breaths.

“We’ll head back to you and your mom’s place, okay?” Dean eventually says, “You want anybody to come with us? Maybe grandma or Aunt Ellen?”

It takes a moment for Ben to answer. When he does, he says, “No. Just us is okay.”

“Sounds good, kiddo,” says Dean, “I’ve gotta make a few calls, but after that we’ll get ready and go. How’s that sound to you?”

“Okay,” is all that Ben replies. Shit, Dean wants nothing more than to pull his kid in for a hug and only let him go when everything’s better. Ben already knows too much about what a crappy place the world can be, and Dean wants to protect him from the rest of it, if only for a little while. But he can’t, no matter how much he wants to. Ben doesn’t trust him to do that.

So he doesn’t hug his son.

Instead, Dean just squeezes Ben’s shoulder and makes a kind of ‘I’m going now to do that thing’ noise and stows himself in his own bedroom to call Bobby (Christ, though, he owes Bobby something big for giving Dean this much space to figure this dad shit out), notify his mom out of courtesy, and see if he could get Cas to play escort on this road trip to Wichita.

Bobby as always is far more understanding than Dean deserves, and like Dean knew would happen, his mom fusses and asks if she should come along. He tells her not to worry. He and Ben will be fine. They’re taking Cas with them.

Or so he’s hoping, anyway.

When Dean dials Castiel’s number, he picks up after the second ring.

“Hello, Dean,” Cas answers, that rough voice even more abrasive over the phone, “How are you?”

“Uh, kind of not too good,” Dean admits.

That gets Castiel’s attention. Dean can almost hear the man straighten up on the other end of the call before he asks, “Is Ben all right?”

“Yeah, he’s fine,” says Dean, “I mean, fine-ish. I got a call about Lisa’s…you know, body. I guess since Ben is Lisa’s only family, taking care of a memorial service or something is in my hands? Which is fine. I mean. Lisa probably deserves better than the fuck-and-run dude that got her pregnant arranging her funeral, but Ben’s helping, and he named a couple ladies Lisa was friends with. Ah. Anyway, man, we need to go back to Lisa and Ben’s place. How soon can you be free?”

Castiel hums to this, the scratch-scratch of paper crackling through the speaker against Dean’s ear. When Cas speaks, Dean doesn’t expect him to say, “Would you mind if I put you on hold, Dean?”

“Uh, I guess so,” Dean says. An irrational streak of annoyance bleeds into his bones. This is probably the most important thing that he’s called Cas about, and the dude’s just treating it like it’s any other old job that he has. And maybe it is. Maybe Castiel takes little kids to the houses that they lived in with their dead moms, but Dean hasn’t done anything even remotely close to that before. He isn’t prepared to handle this crap and – damn it, he kind of liked Cas. Kind of liked him maybe more than kind of.

At least there isn’t some kind of garbled elevator music that Dean has to sit through while Cas does whatever the fuck is so important to be doing right when Dean and Ben need him.

Sooner than Dean expects, the line clicks to life and Castiel breathlessly says, “Are you still here, Dean?”

“Uh. Yeah.”

“Good,” Cas says, “I cleared my appointments for the remainder of today and all of tomorrow. When do you need me?”

A cool rush of relief flows over Dean and exhales with it. He says, “Today – if you can. I think it’ll be better for Ben the sooner we can do this. I don’t want this all heavy on him. Or at least heavier than it already is.”

“Of course,” says Castiel, “I’ll drive to your building. Would you like to all ride in one car? It may be easier.”

“Only if it’s mine,” Dean says. He means that. No way in hell is he getting into whatever practical piece of probably-silver crap that Cas drives.

“I have no objections,” Cas tells him, “I’ll only be a few minutes, but please take care of Ben between now and then. There are many things that may be going through his head right now, and most of them are unpleasant, especially for a child.”

Jesus, that hurts. There’s not a damn thing that Dean can do to shield his kid from this and that makes everything feel ten times worse. Grief in his gut stirs for Lisa, not only for suffering through this shit alone after Dean hightailed it, but because he knows she was a damn good mom. Her kid didn’t deserve to lose her, and she didn’t deserve to lose her kid.

Dean hangs up and pockets his cell. Outside in the living room, the TV is on, but Ben isn’t watching it. He’s not doing much of anything, just sitting curled up in one corner of the couch with his skinny arms wrapped around his knees.

Dean lowers himself a few inches away, leaving enough space for Ben’s comfort and taking enough space for his own. He says, “Hey, bud. Cas – I mean. Mr. Novak is gonna be here pretty soon, and we’re gonna drive over to you and your mom’s old place, just like I said. We can find your mom’s friends and pack up some of your stuff to take back with us. Sound cool?”

Ben nods. He doesn’t talk. And when Cas arrives at the apartment and they all hustle to the Impala, Ben sits in the backseat, silent, his video game thingie (“It’s called a 3DS, Dean.”) tucked between his hands, but his eyes not quite focused on its screen.

The drive from Lawrence to Wichita is about two hours, and while Cas has no issue conking out in the seat beside Dean (regardless of how loudly Dean is blasting Metallica), every time that Dean glances up at the rearview mirror he sees Ben staring out the window. Dean remembers staring out the same window, back when his dad pulled himself together for a day or two and taught him and Sammy how to shoot.

Dean always wondered why his dad couldn’t have been like that always.

With Castiel’s guidance, Dean parks in front of a small house coated in butter-yellow paint that looks like it’s only seen a couple of seasons. In front, there’s a huge tree towering about the roof. Judging by that, and by the architecture, Dean judges the neighborhood to be a product of the fifties.

It looks like the kind of place that a kid could call a home. Broken-in with a single car driveway and a tire swing mounted around one sturdy branch of the tree outside – in less than a second it brings Dean back to his childhood home the same as it he’d be brought back standing in its own living room. Yeah, his dad’s pretty absent from the best of Dean’s memories, but not from all of them.

This one Christmas, all of them, his mom and dad, and he and Sam, all sat in front of the old wood-burning fireplace. Dad never let them use it except for on special occasions, and that Christmas counted as special. Everyone was in pajamas. Dean got a whole freaking ton of these Star Wars Micro Machines that he’d begged for for months. His dad had smiled when Dean opened that present.

But John Winchester isn’t the same man as that one Christmas.

“Dean?”

Cas’ voice jerks Dean out of his thoughts, and he shuts off the Impala’s engine. Ben still doesn’t say anything as they step up to the front door and Castiel inserts the key.

“Why don’t you pack up some of the stuff from your old room?” Dean says to Ben, “And me and Mr. Novak will see if we can get in touch with your mom’s friends.” They’d know better than Dean what Lisa would want to be remembered by.

Ben nods and slips away. As soon as they hear the sound of a door closing, Castiel says, “Lisa owned this place. I don’t have a copy of her will but I would guess that she left it to Ben.”

Dean whistles, “One helluva clubhouse.”

The joke falls flat.

Taking advantage of the death of the conversation, Dean stalks off to find where Lisa might keep phone numbers, and finds an office-like room about the size of a large closet. The desk is a little messy but otherwise organized, and it takes very little time for Dean to dig up a sort of planner-slash-address book.

Sam would say that it’s outdated to have a hard copy of people’s numbers and addresses – Dean also keeps a crappy little address book stuffed into a corner of his bookshelf, and his brother cannot let it go. But for fuck’s sake, any time Dean gets a new cell and his carrier “transfers” his contacts, there are always like twenty missing. Or so it feels.

Seems Lisa was of the same mind.

Dean finds in the forefront of the book: _Jennifer Rookman_ and also _Katherine Freed_. That’s gotta be Jenn and Kathy, right? Right.

**X**

As soon as Dean contacts them, Lisa’s friends take the reins for the funeral. Some lawyer comes knocking with them and asks if Dean wants to use Ben’s inheritance from Lisa’s will to cover the costs.

Dean says no, and gives them his credit card.

**X**

The last time that Dean put on a suit, he was best man at Sam and Sarah’s wedding. The thing sat in the back of his closet after that, collecting dust, until the day came for Lisa’s memorial service. The night before he took a lint roller to it and ironed each piece. It still fits, sort of. The jacket’s tighter in the waist than he remembers it being.

Maybe it was out of paranoia, but Dean called ahead to let the nearest tux rental place that he needed a suit for his kid and that it was for his mom’s funeral – and he told them not to ask Ben at all what the ‘special occasion’ was, lest he be left with a despondent nine-year-old and a distinct feeling of inadequacy. The only thing that their Men’s Warehouse guy said to them was that Ben looked handsome.

Now Dean thinks that they both feel like penguins. Ben again doesn’t look at Dean but stares out the window on the early-morning drive to Wichita for the service. Apparently Lisa’s friends knew of a plot of land at a local cemetery that Lisa had her eye on after her diagnosis, so Dean agreed to have her buried there.

Before they break from the bounds of Lawrence, Dean takes them both out to breakfast at a dive on the edge of town. The waitress asks what the ‘special occasion’ is, and Dean shakes his head. She doesn’t ask them anything at all after that. When the food comes, Dean only manages half of his pancakes and all of his coffee, while Ben looks like he didn’t eat anything at all, just moved his eggs and bacon around his plate with a fork.

When Dean was little, his dad would have told him that they weren’t leaving the restaurant until he cleaned his plate.

So that’s exactly what Dean doesn’t do.

He just says, “All done, bud?”

And Ben nods without a word. Dean asks for the bill and leaves a hefty tip to make up for the solemn air of the meal.

The service is a small thing. Lisa’s friends and their families attend, but only a few other unfamiliar faces are in the clutch. Sam and Sarah come with their brood, and Dean’s mom comes too. Castiel arrives a few minutes before everything is set to begin. Dean’s surprised; he knew that he’d invited Cas, but he didn’t think that he’d actually show up. Coming to a funeral service is kind of a personal thing. Dean doesn’t actually know how _personal_ that Cas is with them, or if he’s just friendly and professional.

Whatever the case, having Cas nearby when Lisa’s friend Kathy starts a tearful speech takes some weight off of Dean’s shoulders.

Dean did make sure that these Kathy and Jenn chicks knew to cover the area with yellow flowers. He told them what Ben told him, and to see that they took it to heart puts some light into this whole mess of darkness. Lisa’s casket has sunflowers and daffodils and a ton of other flora that Dean couldn’t name if he tried.

Ben tugs on Dean’s sleeve and says, “Mom would like her flowers.”

“That’s awesome to hear,” Dean murmurs back, “You think we made it pretty enough for her?”

Ben nods. His eyes water but don’t spill over, and Dean reaches over to squeeze his shoulder. They listen to folks that knew Lisa singing her praises, the way that people do at funerals – remembering all the good and forgetting the flaws.

“Before we open the floor to everyone, we have a final speaker,” says Jenn, “Lisa’s son Ben has some words that he’s written for his mother. Come on up, Ben.”

Dean gnaws on his lower lip as Ben peels from his side with a piece of crinkled notebook paper clutched tightly in his fists. Dean watched his agonize over this thing, sitting at the kitchen table with a pencil and a stack of paper, writing and erasing and rewriting words in round, childish handwriting.

For a long moment, Ben just stands in front of them all, looking even more like he wants to cry. Somehow, the kid manages to hold it together as he says, “I miss my mom more than I’ve ever missed anyone in the whole world. My mom knew how to do everything. She knew how to fix stuff and how to make my favorite food and…” – his voice shakes, but doesn’t crack – “and I wish she never had to leave me. S-Sometimes bad things happen to good people. She told me that one time. I wish my mom only had good things. I wish – I mean, I hope – I hope that if there’s a heaven that my mom is an angel and that she has nothing but good things now.”

Dean closes his eyes as Ben’s voice tapers off. He doesn’t know if he has a right to the grief stewing in his gut all hot and viscous, the right to want Lisa back even though he left her years and years ago.

His eyes open when he hears Ben let out a loud sob. Dean’s son runs to him and instead of hitting Dean or sitting in the grass beside him, Ben throws his arms around Dean’s waist and presses his face into his stomach, right where his suit coat buttons strain over his gained weight. Without hesitation Dean hugs back, putting his arms around Ben to rock him back and forth on his feet, rubbing his back with his open palm.

Kathy announces an open time for anyone to speak. Some of the people that step forward are coworkers, others are attendees of Lisa’s yoga classes, and some are folks that maybe didn’t know Lisa too good, but did know her kindness.

Finally, Dean scrapes up enough courage to say, “I’m not an authority on Lisa,” and never keeps moving his hand over Ben’s back while the words form, “As some of you know, I’m the jerk that took off ten years ago. I can say that I don’t regret a dang minute that I had with her, and that the closest I came to loving anyone outside of my family was her. We didn’t always get along and she was stubborn as a mule back then, but, ah. There are some people you just don’t forget.

“And what I can tell you for sure is that Lisa made an awesome mom. It was a little more than surprising when I suddenly had a son, but I couldn’t have asked for a better one. Lisa raised Ben up right. I’m hopin’ I manage to keep that going.”

Dean feels strange, but no one looks at him like he shouldn’t have spoken. They’re all just as weepy as before.

While Lisa’s casket lowers into the ground, Dean holds Ben tight to him. He says, just loud enough for only Ben to hear, “I got you, buddy, okay? We’re gonna be all right. We’re gonna make things feel good again.”

And if Dean can’t do that, he’ll at least give it his best damn shot.

Ben doesn’t want to let go of Dean, even as dirt fills the spaces between Lisa’s casket and the walls of the grave, so Dean heaves Ben up into his arms. The kid is a heavy fucker (and tall, which is definitely Dean’s fault), but it helps to have Ben shift his grip to keep his arms looped around Dean’s neck and his face on the shoulder of Dean’s suit. There’ll be a nice patch of snot and tears right there, but Dean can’t find it in him to give a damn.

“I got you, I got you,” he repeats over and over, until Lisa’s body is swallowed completely by earth and her friends drape the gravesite in yellow flowers.

There’s supposed to be some kind of reception at Jenn’s house, but at the rate things are going, Dean thinks it would be better to get Ben home than to make him sit through any more mourning. He says as much to Jenn herself with Ben still plastered to him.

Jenn smiles at him.

“You know,” she says, “I wasn’t too sure about you at first. But you’re an okay guy, Dean.”

Dean manages a chuckle and a, “Thanks.”

“I’ll see you later, Ben. It was good to get to see you again,” Jenn says, before turning back to Dean to ask, “Is it all right if I give him my phone number?”

“Yeah, a’course,” Dean says. With a ballpoint pen from her Vera Bradley purse, Jenn scrawls a number on the back of one of the memorial service invitations. She hands it to Ben and says goodbye. The farewell to Kathy is similar, and she too writes down her phone number for Ben. Dean wonders if he should be offended, wonders if these broads think he can’t take care of his kid.

But nah, they love Ben almost as much as Dean does and just wants to make sure that he’ll always be okay. At least. He thinks that’s the reason.

Out at the cemetery parking lot, Dean invites Cas to come back to his apartment for some coffee and feel-better conversation with his brother (sans Sarah and kids because the kids would probably be bored out of their skulls with Ben not feeling company at the moment) and his mom. Castiel agrees.

“Hey, kiddo, I’m gonna have to put you down, okay?” Dean says to Ben, “We’re gonna get in the car and drive on home.”

“’Kay,” says Ben.

Cas opens the back door of the Impala for Dean so that they can just duck down and get Ben straight in the seat. Ben’s eyes shift to the floor of the car and he buckles up as Dean says, “See you back the apartment. And thanks. For coming. It means a lot to both of us, I think.”

“I would never miss something this important,” Castiel replies. A _to you_ hangs off of the end of the sentence between them, but neither bothers to mention it. Instead, they bid a temporary goodbye and Dean climbs back into the Impala to make the two hour hike back to Lawrence.

Mere minutes into the drive, Dean watches Ben’s red-rimmed eyes droop closed and his head flop over against the window. He’s out cold, cold enough that he doesn’t wake when Dean cranks on the radio. He keeps the volume on low out of respect, but mouths the words along to the songs.

By the time that Dean pulls up to his apartment building, Ben is still asleep, though now slumped over to the other side, head pressed against the leather seat and arms tucked in close to himself. With gentle hands, Dean unbuckles his son and pulls him out. His arms are still sore from holding Ben all that time at the service, but it doesn’t matter, not when his kid is asleep and grieving and just needs _somebody._

Everyone else beat Dean to his apartment and his mother let herself in with her key. They let Dean in when he knocks awkwardly, careful not to wake Ben. He gives them a pointed look before anyone can be loud, and makes his way to Ben’s bedroom. There, Dean lays Ben down on his bed. He doesn’t bother changing him out of his suit, but he does unlace and pull off Ben’s dress shoes, placing them down at the foot of Ben’s bed.

“Sweet dreams, buddy,” he says, and pulls Ben’s Star Wars comforter over him. Dean exits the bedroom but leaves the door open a crack, just in case Ben wakes up confused.

Out in the living room, Dean blows all the air out of his lungs and sheds his suit coat, tossing it over the back of the couch. He gets the coffee machine going and invites everyone to the leftovers in the fridge or whatever food they can scrounge up. His mom rolls her eyes at that, but maybe that’s a promise for a home-cooked dinner later tonight.

A man can hope.

“It was a lovely service, Dean,” his mom tells him, the first words to come out of her mouth since they arrived back in Lawrence.

Dean nods and says, “I can’t really take credit for that. Lisa’s friends did all the grunt work, and most of the ideas for it were Ben’s. All I did was pay for it.”

“Wait, _you_ paid for it?” says Sam.

“Uh, duh,” Dean says back, “Who else was gonna do it? Like fuck I was gonna use my son’s inheritance money for that. It’s not my money.”

Thankfully before anyone can respond, the coffee maker beeps to announce that the joe is ready. Dean puts out an already-opened carton of half-and-half and a thing of sugar on the kitchen table before he serves three mugs of coffee and three spoons. He takes his own black, letting the bitter taste settle on his tongue and the warmth cruise over his throat. It’s nice to hold something warm in his hands.

“So, uh,” starts Dean, “You probably already introduced yourselves, but – mom, Sam, this is Cas. He’s our social worker dude. Cas, this is my mom, Mary, and my brother, Sam.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you both,” Castiel says, polite as ever.

They make small talk at the kitchen table for a while, about work and the upcoming holidays. Really, they talk about anything but Lisa's service, quietly sipping coffee until Dean’s stomach growls in complaint and Mary offers to start a dinner for them all. Cas tells her that he’ll help, and they disappear together to pick up supplies at the grocery store. Dean watches them go with a twisted kind of warmth blooming in his stomach. Today is a day for mourning. He knows that. But, still. Seeing Cas offer to help his mom brings a sense of  _home_. He wonders if that's just 'cause of his schoolboy crush crap. Maybe Dean is just happy somebody's making food.

He shouldn't dwell on it.

“I’ve been thinking,” Dean says to Sam, stroking his thumb over the rim of his coffee mug, “that I might get me n’ Ben a place. You know. A real one. A house.”

“No shit?”

“After we picked up stuff from Lisa’s old place, I just – I dunno. I remembered all the good stuff we did in mom’s house. It’d be nice for the kid to have his own backyard, maybe some grass out front for lemonade stands or whatever the hell. A driveway for sidewalk chalk or something.”

“We never played with sidewalk chalk.”

“So? We should have,” says Dean, “It always looked fun as hell. And anyway, if we moved to a nicer neighborhood I could get him a bike to ride around on, or – I don’t know, man. I’ve been stashing money for years. This seems like the kind of thing worth spending it on.”

“I think so too,” Sam tells him. Not that Dean needed his brother’s approval in order to go house-hunting, but the venture does seem less impulsive with Sammy’s blessing stamped over it. If the king of practicality says to go for it, then why not?

Shortly after Cas and Mary arrive back and start preparation for dinner-slash-lunch, Ben emerges from his bedroom, sleepy-eyed and bedraggled.

“Hey, how’d you sleep?” asks Dean.

“Mmph.”

“Yeah, it’s been a long day,” Dean says, “Grandma and Cas are making some dinner, though. You hungry at all?”

To Dean’s relief, Ben nods, and then asks, “Can I help?”

“Sure, but you’ve gotta change out of your penguin outfit first,” Dean says. He thinks he sees a ghost of a smile on Ben’s lips, but he can’t be for sure on that. Ben doesn’t hesitate or argue, just turns around and returns in a set of pajamas. He makes a beeline past Dean and Sam and drags a chair over to Mary and Cas, propping it up between them so that he can watch what’s going on.

The meal is a nice reprieve from the day’s seriousness. Ben doesn’t say much, but he does laugh at one of Sam’s jokes and says his pleases and thank yous. Everyone helps with cleanup including Castiel, though Dean tells him that he doesn’t have to worry about it.

And then, everyone begins to excuse themselves, gathering belongings and telling Dean to keep them posted on how he (and Ben, implied) is doing.

Cas is the last to go. Dean stops him before he can make it all the way out of the apartment and says, “I know I already said it, but. You know. Thank you. Seriously. Today was important and it was – it was awesome of you to be there.”

“You and Ben are important to me,” Cas says, as though this is the most obvious thing in the world.

Dean can’t help it. He throws his arms around Cas and squeezes their bodies together. Cas is warm and smells good, and after a second, he hugs Dean back. They linger like that a little too long for the embrace to count as completely casual, but neither of them remark upon it when they finally slip out of each other’s arms.

“Thank you for having me,” Cas says.

“You’re welcome here any time,” says Dean, and he means it. He waves another goodbye, but watches Cas’ back retreat toward the staircase and disappear before he closes the apartment door and returns to the quiet of an apartment with only two people in it. Ben is back at his mass of Lego inventions, so Dean doesn’t interrupt. Instead, he props himself up on the couch with the top comic books from his stack of unread comics.

The silence should be awkward, but instead, it’s comfortable. It’s nice to sit together without doing anything together at all except for _being_ together. When nighttime comes and Ben’s bedtime approaches, they go through the motions of bedtime prep without a single butting of heads, which Dean appreciates.

But of course, only a few minutes after Dean closes Ben’s bedroom door and turns his back, he hears the kid crying. Though it stings every time he’s been ignored by Ben, Dean still follows Castiel’s advice to knock and check on him.

“Hey, you need anything?” he asks.

Then, before Dean can walk away, the muddled sound of a teary voice responds, “You can come in.”

The bedroom door creaks open. Though Dean’s footfalls against the carpet are soft, they seem to echo. Other than the beam of light pouring into Ben’s room from the hallway outside, the only light source are the glow in the dark stars stuck onto the ceiling.

Dean takes a seat on the edge of Ben’s mattress, way at the end of the bed and asks, “You wanna talk about it?”

Ben rubs his tears on the sleeve of his pajamas and says, “I miss my mom.”

“I know you do,” Dean says. He rests his palm on Ben’s shin through the Star Wars comforter and then asks, “You wanna hear a funny story about the time me and your mom went shopping for comics and they tried to overcharge her for a ‘60s Wonder Woman?”

Ben sniffles, but answers, “Yeah.”


	4. We've Made the Most

**Chapter Track: Welcome Home – Radical Face**

**_We’ve Made the Most_ **

Morning routines get easier. Dean thinks he has the hang of waking up a whopping thirty minutes earlier than he’s used to so that he can throw together a lunch for Ben and ship him off to school for the day until Jo picks him up to bring him back to the Roadhouse during the couple of in-between hours that Dean has left at work.

Today, he packs a roast beef and swiss on wheat – Ben’s favorite of Dean’s sandwich experiments thus far – a bag of chips and an apple, the latter mostly because he doesn’t want to look like a negligent father whether or not Ben actually eats the damn thing. Dean illustrates the paper lunch sack with Ben’s name and a bat symbol.

As if on cue, Ben trundles out of his room in his winter coat and his backpack, sneakers laced onto his feet.

“Are you almost done, Dean?” he asks, impatient. If an adult took a tone like that with Dean, he’d tell them to grab a coffee and nut up, but he’s found that this is apparently just how children speak to their parents sometimes.

“Yup, one roast beef and swiss,” he says, and passes the bag to Ben.

Before they leave, Dean runs a comb through his hair one final time. He shrugs his battered leather coat over his shoulders and they hop downstairs to the parking lot, where Ben loads his backpack and himself into the backseat.

As they drive, Dean meditates on the fact that he’ll have to keep his house-hunting within the same area he’s in now, so Ben can keep going to Pine Bough without Dean having to make a hike of a commute every morning. He doesn’t want to jerk Ben around from place to place, the way that his dad did to their family with his inability to hold down a job or settle in one place for too long. Already Ben’s experience with Dean is that he’s been uprooted and thrown into the proverbial pot with a stranger he’s supposed to call “dad”.

“Dean?”

Ben’s voice pulls Dean out of his thoughts. They’re already in front of Pine Bough.

“Right. Sorry,” says Dean, and he unlocks the doors so that Ben can clamber out. He adds, “Have a good day at school, kiddo.”

Ben gives Dean a sort-of-smile and replies, “Have a good day at work, Dean.”

Dean gives Ben a wave and lingers in the line of cars outside of the elementary school until his son is swallowed the crowd of kids done up in their winter gear.

When Dean reaches the shop, the issue of the theoretical house remains on his mind, loitering at the back of his brain as he dips his hands into engines and the underbellies of machines. He works on autopilot until lunchtime, at which point he microwaves himself some Hungry Man concoction.

On the break room table, there’s a newspaper per usual. On impulse, Dean picks it up and flips through the pages until he finds the real estate classifieds. Most of them aren’t close to where he’s looking to go, but there are a couple that sound like actual possibilities. The prices put a furrow in his brow. He has a solid amount in his savings, but not enough to all-out buy a home. Dean’s never dealt with a mortgage before.

“What’s got you lookin’ like you’re doin’ your taxes, boy?”

Dean looks up. Bobby stands in front of him with a mug of muddy coffee from the garage’s barely functioning machine. Dean sighs and sets the paper down, realizing only then that he’s only taken a couple bites of his food and left the rest to go cold. Awesome.

“Don’t you go telling Ellen,” Dean says, “because you know she’s gonna run off and tell my mom and I don’t want mom to get her hopes up about nothing. I’m poking around to see if I can find me and Ben a house. You know, a real one. Shit’s expensive, Bobby.”

There’s something like sympathy on Bobby’s face, and he says, “Lookit you, growin’ up.”

“Shut up,” Dean says, but he chuckles.

Quiet settles between them for a long second. Dean fills the silence by taking a bite of his now-cold microwave meal, but Bobby speaks. He says, gruff voice gentler, “Y’know we’d help you out if you couldn’t make ends meet, right? I know you’re all finicky about acceptin’ help from folks and you’re all about shit being _your responsibility_ , but me n’ Ellen n’ certainly your mom would help you out at the drop of a hat, Dean.”

A sphere of warmth heats Dean from the inside out. He stares down at his food instead of looking up at Bobby. If he looks at Bobby, he’ll get all emotional, and that’s the last kind of thing that Dean needs on a busy weekday. So he says toward his meal, “Yeah, I know.”

“Good,” nods Bobby. He circles around the table and claps a hand down on Dean’s shoulder to add, “I’m real proud of you. Just wanted you to know that. Now you hurry up and finish eating. You’ve got two minutes left on your lunch and whole pile a’ work waiting for you.”

Dean doesn’t have the chance to say so much as a thank you before Bobby leaves the break room. Hearing that somebody’s proud of him for the subpar job he’s doing with raising his surprise son should make him feel even lousier, but instead he smiles just the tiniest bit.

By the end of Dean’s lunch hour, he tosses a half-finished Hungry Man dinner into the plastic trash can beside the coffee maker and washes up before he heads back out to fine-tune machines for folks that can’t do it themselves. Post-lunch work follows the pattern of pre-lunch work; there’s a lot of it, but it’s all the kind of work that makes a dude feel like he’s accomplished something by the end of the day.

The winter sun drifts low in the sky by the time that Dean has shed his jumpsuit and thrown his leather jacket over his shoulders. There’s a crisp bite in the evening wind, and a clump of clouds to the east threatens snow for them tomorrow.

As a kid, Dean always liked summer for the freedom, for being released from school for a couple short, blissful months and being allowed to roam the neighborhood at will. But winter – winter he’s always liked best. Even though in his youth the winter months sat in a cage of droning teachers and piles of homework, the holidays warmed Dean up like a cup of cocoa. Holidays made for being a family, and being the kind of family that didn’t always yell and scream and seem to just _not work_ the way his friends’ families did.

Now, holidays are just the same, minus one John Winchester and happier for it. Dean knows his dad would sit around and criticize the way Dean’s been handling raising Ben, and that knowledge bears down on him. Still, he’ll sure as hell do everything he can to give Ben happy holidays, memories of family and safety instead of loneliness and fear.

Dean parks in the Roadhouse lot and pushes his way inside, past the regulars munching on burgers and fries and sipping beers. Ben is at his usual booth in the back, backpack open beside him and what appears to be some kind of homework spread out over the table. Jo sits across from him, a coke in her hand.

“Ain’t you supposed to be working, slacker?” Dean asks her.

Jo rolls her eyes, “It’s my break, dummy. I’m hanging out with Ben ‘cause he’s awesome.”

“Can’t argue with that,” says Dean, a note of pride strumming under his ribs at the sight of a smile on Ben’s face. He asks, “How was school, kiddo?”

To Dean’s surprise, Ben says, “Good.”

“Good, huh? Why’s that?”

“I met a girl named Krissy at recess,” says Ben, matter-of-fact as he tucks a worksheet of times tables into a folder and then into his backpack, “and she likes outer space just like me. She knows all the names of the constellations! She said her dad taught them to her. Do you know all the constellations, Dean?”

Dean scratches the back of his neck and answers, “I know some. I bet we could find a book or something in the library that would tell us. You wanna go ahead and do that on Saturday when I’m off of work?”

“Yeah, that would be the _coolest_ ,” Ben says. He slips his arms under his backpack straps and hops down from the booth with a jovial, “Bye, Jo!”

“See you tomorrow, squirt,” Jo says back. She slides from the booth just long enough to give Ben a tight hug, and salutes Dean before she returns to her coke and the remains of her break.

“Krissy only has a dad just like me,” Ben tells Dean, “’cept her mom died when she was real little so she doesn’t remember her mom that much. Hey, could Krissy come over and play sometime? She said she’d ask her dad too just to make sure.”

“Sure she can,” Dean says. He unlocks the Impala and watches Ben load his backpack into the back before he situates himself beside Dean in the passengers’ seat. Dean adds, “I’m goin’ grocery shopping. You want me to drop you off at home or you wanna come along?”

“I’m not old enough to be home all by myself,” Ben says, casting Dean one of those _dad, you’re a fucking idiot_ expressions.

“All right, all right,” says Dean, “You got any dinner requests? We could do spaghetti again, or I could fry up some chicken, maybe. What do you think?”

“I want burgers,” Ben says.

“Burgers it is.”

At the store, Dean flicks through pages of coupons while Ben mans the cart. He sticks a lot of stuff in it without asking Dean, and Dean puts most of it back, but Ben’s good humor today only has him pouting and not throwing a full-blown fit. Even so, most of what they have in their shopping cart is junk food. Dean throws in a crate of clementines to balance things out.

Before they turn into the cereal aisle, Dean starts ripping out a buy-one get-one coupon for Fruity Pebbles, but stops dead when Ben stills and exclaims, “Mr. Novak!”

Dean looks up.

Sure enough, a few meager feet away, Cas stands in the cereal aisle, a box of Honey Bunches in one hand and Cheerios in the other. He’s far from the formal Castiel that Dean’s gotten to know so well. He’s swapped his suit for a pair of well-worn jeans that sit low on his hips, some sneakers that have seen better days, and a Judas Priest _Screaming for Vengeance_ t-shirtthat Dean tries hard not to find incredibly fucking attractive on the dude.

Cas’ hair sticks up more than usual.

Before Dean can say a word, Ben breaks from their grocery cart to run to Castiel, and he says, “We’re making hamburgers tonight. You should come have dinner with us. Do you like hamburgers, Mr. Novak?”

“I love hamburgers,” says Cas, “but you should probably ask your dad if it’s okay for me to come to dinner first.”

Ben rolls his eyes at Cas but trudges back to Dean to ask, “Can Mr. Novak come over for burgers?”

“If he doesn’t have plans already, bud,” says Dean, “Why don’t you grab your cereal and let Mr. Novak think about it for a second, huh?”

Ben runs off, and Dean takes the opportunity to edge closer to Cas. He says, “Hey man, don’t feel obligated to come over or anything. Kid’s full of energy tonight.”

Castiel fidgets. He says, “If it wouldn’t inconvenience you, I really would enjoy sharing a meal with you and Ben.”

Because the universe is out to get Dean, those words light Dean right on up. He feels a lopsided smile on his face but for the life of him can’t wipe it off before he replies, “Awesome, man. You want us to let you finish your shopping and you can meet us later?”

“I actually only came out tonight to purchase something to eat tonight,” Castiel admits.

Dean peers into the plastic basket hanging off of Cas’ arm. It contains a grand total of three items: a six pack of beer and two boxes of Kraft Mac n’ Cheese. Dean’s eyebrows lift before he can help it, and he laughs a little. He says, “Dude, that’s it?”

Castiel eyes him, “You were a bachelor little more than a month ago. You’re telling me that you prepared a dinner for yourself every night?”

Dean lets out another laugh, this one from deep in the gut.

“Touché,” he replies.

Ben brushes past them to dump a box of Cookie Crisp into the shopping cart before he rolls up to their side. He tugs on Dean’s shirt and says, “Dean, can we hurry up so we can have dinner with Mr. Novak?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean chuckles, “C’mon, let’s grab the hamburger meat and some buns and we’ll get this show on the road.”

After Castiel parts from them and returns his items to the shelves, he joins Dean and Ben, dutifully listening to Ben chatter about his good day at school and his new friend Krissy, how she knows constellations and only has a dad, too. Cas nods and replies to each thing that Ben has to say. No wonder Cas got this gig – he loves kids. Hell, Dean’s always loved kids, but he’s better at playing with kids and being the fun uncle than he is actually having a conversation with them.

In line for checkout, Dean approves a request for a Snickers bar to put in Ben’s lunch tomorrow, which sparks an in-depth conversation between Ben and Cas about which candy bars are best and why, while Dean unloads the cart on the conveyor belt. Apparently, Castiel is into KitKats.

“That’ll be seventy dollars and sixty seven cents,” the cashier recites. She isn’t quite looking at Dean as she says it. Dean follows her line of sight – right to Ben and Cas and their animated conversation. She catches Dean looking and says, “You have a lovely family.”

“He’s not – um. Yeah. Thanks,” Dean says. He fumbles with his debit card and drops it on the floor before he can swipe it.

At least they make it out of there without Cas overhearing Dean clumsily accepting a compliment on their “family”. And hey, if they were a family, they’d be a good looking bunch.

That’s definitely his dumbass crush talking.

They part ways in the parking lot with the agreement to meet back at Dean and Ben’s apartment building, just outside the front. Dean and Ben reach the destination first, and Dean removes the grocery bags from the back. When Cas arrives he offers to take some of the weight – to which Dean says no – and then wrestles a couple of the bags from Dean’s hands, walking a step behind Dean until they’re in the apartment.

“All right, let’s get cracking,” Dean says. He sets grocery bags on the counter and flicks on the television. Dean tosses the remote to Ben and says, “Go wild, kid. Cas, you sit back and relax. Food’ll be up in a jiff, man.”

“I want to help,” says Cas.

“Nah, man, you just sit back and relax,” Dean says with a wave.

“I insist,” Castiel tells him, and lifts his chin. Dean knows the look in Cas’ eye – it’s a look he used to see in the people he drove all around the country to sleep with, the determination that says _I am going to get what I want._ Except, really, that look has always been reserved for bedroom shenanigans. It’s a little more than atypical to see it in a person demanding to help with a meal.

It takes a moment for Dean to regain his composure, and he says, “Yeah, all right. If it’s that important to you. Why don’t you cut up those potatoes? We’re gonna toss ‘em in the oven and they’re gonna be some poor man’s fries.”

With a nod, and albeit some fumbling, Cas finds a cutting board, a potato peeler and a solid knife. He works over the trash can to keep the potato peelings contained, while Dean opens up a package of grocery store beef and starts shaping it into discs. His mom taught him to make burgers – damn, did Mary Winchester make a mean burger – but he’s a little rusty. Bachelordom, as Cas alluded to hardly a half-hour before, does sometimes allow a guy to dip his toes into laziness.

Or cannonball in, if you’re Dean.

There’s something friggin’ weird about all this crap. He always thought he’d be a rolling stone kind of dude, never settling, always keeping responsibility at a minimum. Now he’s sitting in his too-small apartment, cooking with his social worker-slash-friend-slash-mancrush, or whatever the hell, and there’s a kid on the couch watching cartoons. A kid that Dean _made_.

Well. Helped make, anyway. He’s not the one that did the hard work, that’s for sure. But Dean’ll be doing hard work for the next nine years to make up for that.

Dinner doesn’t take long to cook. When they’re finished, the entire apartment smells like cooking meat and seasoning, and when Ben turns off the TV and they all sit down, Dean can smell the cheese and butter on the potatoes, too.

“Dig on in,” Dean says.

Ben speaks far more freely to Cas about school, through bites of burger and potato, and sips of orange juice. Turns out that Ben does like Ms. Bradbury a lot, and he got a sticker (Dean can only assume this means an A) on his science quiz about clouds.

“–and the ones outside right now are cumulo…cumulonimbus, ‘cause they’re huge and puffy. You think it’s gonna be cold enough for snow?”

“That’s what the weather guy says,” Dean says.

“Cool,” Ben says, “If it snows, can you help me make a snow fort, Dean? Mom always made really cool snow forts with me.”

The conversation dies out at that, but Dean doesn’t let it stay dead for long. He responds, “Sure thing, dude. Y’know, me and your uncle Sam used to build some pretty awesome forts back in the day. Then we’d have snowball fights. I always won.”

“Well, I’ll beat you.”

“You want bet?” Dean says, and cocks a brow.

“Yeah, I bet,” Ben says back, and sticks out his tongue.

Dean laughs. He points a finger at Ben over the dinner table and says, “You’re on, buddy. It’s snowballs at dawn, and you’re going down.”

“No, _you’re_ going down.”

With promises of snow forts and snowball fights in the case of a storm, they finish their dinner, and Dean brings out leftover apple pie from the Roadhouse, tossing three slices in the microwave and making each alamode with a generous scoop of ice cream. Dean feels like he needs a serious food coma by the end, but unfortunately for him, there’s now a pile of dishes that need his attention.

“Why don’t you pick out a movie for us to watch?” suggests Dean to Ben, and only barely thinks to tack on, “You got all your homework done, right?”

“ _Duh_ ,” says Ben, “It was just times tables.”

“Hey. Easy on the attitude, Ferris,” Dean warns, casting his gaze over his shoulder just in time to see Ben roll his eyes. He almost tells him to knock that off, too, but decides he’ll pick his battles and goes back to rinsing and loading dishes into the dishwasher. He startles when a stack of dishes appears next to him.

“Let me help,” says Castiel, and before Dean can say _listen assclown, you’re a guest_ , Cas is running pie plates under the stream of tap water in front of Dean, and bending around him to line them up in the washer.

“Dean, is Hercules okay?” Ben calls from the living room.

“You got it,” Dean says, and pretends not to notice the look that Cas is giving him, questioning why Dean owns Disney’s Hercules.

“Can Mr. Novak stay for the movie, too?” asks Ben.

This time, Dean does look over at Cas. He murmurs, “You don’t have to, man. I know you got work in the morning.”

“I’d still like to,” Castiel says, “as long as it’s all right with you.”

“A’course it is,” Dean says back, a dumb half-smile on his face. Cas has a similar sort-of smile on his face, too, and it makes Dean feel good. Real good. Maybe too good, but he doesn’t care about that right now.

“ _Deeean_ ,” Ben whines.

“Yeah, yeah. Mr. Novak says he can stay,” Dean says, before he asks Cas, “Are you sure this isn’t some crazy breach of social services protocol or some shit?”

Castiel shrugs as he inserts his final dish into the dishwasher, and leans back against the small stretch of counter space behind him. He folds his arms over his chest, over that freaking Judas Priest shirt that Dean is trying not to pop a stiffy over, and says, “I do love my job, but I’ll admit I have more fun spending time with you and Ben than I’ve had with any other previous families under my care and supervision.”

“Huh. Well, I think you’re pretty cool too, if that means anything,” Dean says. He tosses a detergent pellet into the dishwasher and locks it up. It makes a grinding noise when it starts as it always does, but keeps on pumping before he can get worried.

Ben makes himself at home on Dean’s armchair, so Dean and Castiel take the couch, sitting on either end with a safe distance between them as the DVD menu comes up. Dean offers to make a pot of coffee but Castiel tells him that it’s okay and not to trouble himself, again with that sort-of smile on his stupid attractive face.

And damn it, Dean smiles back.

Only twenty minutes in, Ben sacks out with his head slumped over the arm of the chair and his Star Wars blanket tangled around his little body. Dean sighs, and glances over at Cas. He says, “He’s a lot more open with you about crap, y’know.”

“What ‘crap’?” asks Castiel.

“Everything.”

“Give him time,” Castiel says. He scoots over just a fraction of a foot and rests his palm on Dean’s arm. It’s warm, and rougher than Dean thought it would be for a guy that works a mostly-office job and spends the majority of his time in a fancy suit. For a long time – too long – they stare at each other. It’s tense and Christ, it feels like Dean should have Cas’ mouth on his now, but he can’t make it happen. He’s frozen in place, feeling more like an idiot than he has at any other point in his life – and he’s definitely been an idiot on more than a few occasions in his lifetime.

Castiel clears his throat and moves away. He says, “I know it must hardly feel like it’s only been a month, but it has. Benjamin needs space to heal. If you allow him that, he’ll come to trust you. I’m sure of it.”

“Mm,” Dean says. He doesn’t know if he agrees, but he says anyway, “Thanks, Cas.”

**X**

It is Ben’s first Thanksgiving without his mom. Dean is hyper-aware of that fact, and more than anything he wants to make sure that when Ben looks back on the first Thanksgiving he celebrated without his mother that he’ll still think of it as a nice holiday.

So a couple days before the big shebang, Dean sits beside Ben where he’s building some kind of lego building on the living room carpet. Ben looks up.

“Hey,” Dean says, “I wanted to ask you a question.”

Ben makes a serious face, the kind of a face that a kid makes when they know that something is probably important. The expression would be more endearing if Dean didn’t see it on his son’s face all the time. He straightens his back and sets aside his half-done lego tower before he says, “Okay.”

“So I was thinkin’ about Thanksgiving, ‘cause it’s coming up in a couple days.”

“You said we’re going to grandma’s house,” says Ben.

“We are. I wanted to ask you what you and your mom did on Thanksgiving. I just wanted to know if there’s anything special that you wanna make sure you still get to do,” Dean says. The words come out slowly. He doesn’t stumble over them aloud, but he does in his head, even though he rehearsed how he’d ask his kid that question a million times. He’d been worried enough to text Castiel to get his opinion, though Cas seemed to think what Dean already had was adequate.

Ben doesn’t get angry. He casts his eyes down at the carpet and says, “Well, we always made one pumpkin pie and one pecan pie. And mom made homemade whipped cream.”

“Dude, we can totally do that,” Dean says, “Your grandma makes like, ten million pies anyway. Anything else you guys did?”

“Um,” Ben fidgets, “After dinner we took a break, but then mom made hot chocolate and we watched The Goonies.”

“You wanna do that this year too, or is that just special between you and your mom?” asks Dean.

Ben catches his lower lip with his tooth and says, “Maybe we could have hot chocolate but we could watch a different movie?”

“Right on, kiddo. Let’s do it.”

A tentative smile edges its way onto Ben’s face, and Dean feels like he accomplished something.

The Thanksgiving holiday itself counts among Dean’s favorites. Ben gets to know his cousins (Jacob, Christine and baby Ellie, respectively) and they proceed to wreak havoc on Dean’s childhood home, running up and down the stairs and finding all of the ancient 1980s toys that belonged to Sam and Dean in the basement (At some point while Dean is helping his mother put together the meal, Ben emerges with a plastic Prince Adam in his fist and the question “Why is he wearing pink?” on his lips. Dean tells him that boys can wear pink if they want to, a statement that gets a thoughtful noise from Ben and a look of pride from his mom that he shrinks back from, just a little. He can hear his dad snapping at him that _no, boys cannot wear pink_ in the back of his brain. Dean quietly tells his inner John Winchester to shut the hell up for once).

Dinner is a success, with all the right fixings of turkey and stuffing and cranberry salad and sweet potatoes. Dean eats himself stupid, and is happy to see Ben tucking away as much as he can, too. They do take a while to let the meal settle before Mary brings out the pies. Dean rubs his palm over Ben’s back when Mary serves him a slice of from-scratch pecan pie and scoops a giant spoonful of homemade whipped cream over the top.

“Is that enough whipped cream?” she asks Ben.

“It’s perfect,” Ben tells her. Dean feels heavy, but this time it’s a good kind of heavy – he isn’t holding the world on his shoulders but instead is stuffed full of the good of this day, and it puts a smile on his face that lasts the entire evening.

Then, at the end of the night, Ben and Dean and Mary collaborate to make the perfect cups of hot chocolate. They top them off with some of the leftover whipped cream and everyone piles into the living room to relax and watch the movie that Ben settled on watching – Indiana Jones. Ben sits close beside Dean.

As the movie begins to play and everyone’s attention is on the television screen, Ben tugs at the sleeve of Dean’s Henley and says, “Thank you, Dean.”

Dean musses Ben’s hair with his hot chocolate free hand and says, “No problemo, buddy.”

**X**

November snows its way into December, and Dean’s theoretical house-hunting journey becomes a reality. Dean actually calls realtors and sets up appointments on Saturdays and sometimes weekdays after Dean picks Ben up from the Roadhouse.

Today Dean and Ben have three on their checklist. The first is a bust, an older house whose large size and cheap price make a whole lot of sense when Dean and Ben walk in to see all the repairs that the old girl will need.

“This one?” Ben says, when Dean pulls up against the curb.

“Yeah,” answers Dean, “What do you think?”

“Are you sure it has enough room?”

Dean chuckles. He says, “Yeah, I made sure. It has a bedroom for each of us. Looks like it has a nice bathroom, from what I could see on the website.”

“If you’re sure,” Ben says.

A realtor with nineties bangs hairsprayed in place greets them when Dean knocks on the door, a wide, white-toothed smile on her face and a three-ring binder in her hands. She sticks out a hand and says, “You must be Mr. Winchester. And this is your son?”

“My name is Ben,” Ben says, words clipped.

“Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you, Ben,” she says, and offers her hand for Ben to shake, too, “I’m Shirley. Let me give the tour of the place. As you know, it’s only five years old, so it’s in great condition. It’s perfect for small families.”

Dean doesn’t mention that it doesn’t have the big tree outside that he’d been dreaming of because it’s such a new home. Ben stays a step behind Dean as they follow Shirley inside, almost hiding as they step into the modest kitchen. It’s not what Dean would have picked out for himself, with white countertops and honey-colored cabinetry, but it’s better than what he’s got now and that’s all he needs.

Shirley leads them to each room on the ground-level floor, from the two small bedrooms to the bathroom, which does turn out to be a pretty nice size.

“It’s got two sinks,” Dean says to Ben, “We could both have our own. What d’you think?”

“It’s okay,” Ben says. Dean frowns. Not the reaction he’s looking for, really, but then, Dean’s been thinking _this’ll do_ throughout the entire tour, so maybe it would be better to save a house that feels like _home_ , instead of just a house that would function for the both of them.

“We’ll keep it in mind,” Dean tells Shirley, but as soon as he and Ben are in the Impala he says, “Well, that was a bust. Guess we’ll have to keep looking, huh?”

“I don’t care. I want to find the best house of all,” Ben says.

“Me too,” replies Dean, “and we’re gonna find it. The very best house.”

**X**

A week before Christmas, Cas makes a usual visit. He’s started visiting sans suit, and instead wears jeans and t-shirts, often something from a marathon he ran or a band and his sneakers that are in dire need of replacing. Today, when he sheds his coat, he’s wearing a white shirt the colorful logo and sponsors of a charity run.

“Hello, Dean,” Castiel greets, and nods to where Ben is surrounded by a pile of loose legos in front of an Adventure Time episode, “Hello, Benjamin.”

“Hi, Mr. Novak,” Ben says, and gets to his feet. He gives Dean a pointed look, which Dean guesses is supposed to be his way of giving a signal that they should give Cas his Christmas presents now – as though Dean could forget something like Castiel Novak’s Christmas presents. As it is the guy hangs in his head like a toxin, and what a damn sweet toxin it is.

“Me n’ Ben got you some stuff for Christmas,” Dean says.

Cas cocks his head at Dean, eyes narrowed like he doesn’t quite believe it. He says, “Did you?”

“Sure did,” Dean says, “Ben, you wanna give him his first present?”

With a quick nod, Ben darts back to his own bedroom and passes up a lump of wrapping paper and scotch tape. He tells Cas, “Dean said I could wrap it myself, so I did.”

“It’s lovely, Benjamin, thank you,” Castiel says.

“You’re supposed to open it now,” Ben says, a haughty hand on one hip.

Obediently, Castiel starts peeling the wrapping paper away. Before it can fall, Dean takes the crumpled mess and tosses it into the kitchen trash. When he turns back, Cas’ eyes are round and bewildered. He looks from Dean to Ben and back again before he asks, “Where did you even find this?”

“The internet has everything, dude,” Dean says, giving Cas a teasing jab to the arm.

The gift isn’t anything big or impressive. It is, in fact, just a mug. But it does say _#1 Social Worker_ across it, because apparently the internet sells _#1_ paraphernalia for just about everything, all the way from _#1 Ballerina_ to _#1 Electrician._ And while Dean is well aware that there’s a fucking miasma of social workers out there, he’s pretty sure that Castiel is the best. He doesn’t know if he could have done this dad thing the way that he’s managed to for the past three months, even with the support of his family.

Cas is – important. He’s the goddamn keystone of the bridge that is Dean’s foray into parenthood because surely without him Dean would already have fallen apart.

“This is so thoughtful,” Cas says, “I love it.”

“We have another present too,” Ben says. He takes Cas by the hand and leads him to the pie tin on the kitchen counter, “Dean and me –”

“Dean and I,” corrects Cas.

Ben wrinkles his nose but continues, “Dean and _I_ made you a pie. Do you like apple pie? ‘Cause it’s apple pie.”

“Apple is my favorite,” Cas says. Whether or not that’s true, the sentence makes Ben light up like fireworks and that makes Dean smile.

Dean makes himself scarce after that so that Cas and Ben can speak privately. He’d clean up the legos left on the carpet, but last time he did that, Ben was furious. The kid had been sorting them out somehow, and though the pieces looked like they had no rhyme or reason to Dean, they clearly did to Ben.

Instead, Dean turns off the TV and pulls out the printouts he has of real estate ads. He planned on showing these to Cas anyway, may as well get started now. It’s down to three houses, all of which Dean liked and Ben approved. Ben’s partial to the one with the sprawling front and back lawns. Dean kind of likes it, too. The kitchen feels like the kind of place he wants to be, and outside there’s a giant willow tree on the left side of the house.

Dean does have ‘giant tree’ in his list of things he wants in a home, after all.

It’s a good house.

“Dean?”

His head jerks up and he smiles at Cas above him. He says, “Hey. Thought you might wanna see the finalists for the new joint.”

“May I?” Cas says, and sounds kind of pumped by the idea.

Dean passes up the information for the house with the willow tree and huge yard and says, “That’s the one I’m thinking about.”

Cas makes a noise of thought and looks it over before he turns to the printouts of the other two contenders. He skims over the information and hands them back to Dean. He says, “I like that first one, too.”

“It ain’t exactly cheap, but I got what I need for a down payment, and the mortgage’s only five hundred-ish a month to keep it up. Less than I’m paying for rent, anyhow,” he says. A smile creeps up on his face. He doesn’t have time to reel it in before Cas catches his eye and smiles back, something small and crooked, but a smile nonetheless.

In an instant, it ends. Castiel reverses back into social worker mode, face going serious. He asks, “Houses aside, how has everything been going? Ben seems to be doing well at school. What about here?”

“Decent,” Dean says, and rolls back his shoulders, “Ben still has issues sleeping and stuff, but I’m reading the Harry Potter books to him right now before bed, and that seems to help a little. I’m actually – I’m kinda nervous about Christmas, though. You would mind, y’know, taking a look at the crap I’ve got for him so far? I think he’ll like ‘em, but I, um. Don’t know. For sure.”

“Of course,” Cas replies.

They pass Ben where he sits in his room with headphones plugged into his ears as he plays something on his DS, or 3DS, or whatever the hell the thing is. He doesn’t look up when they pass. Dean leads Cas to the nook in his closet where he’s stashed the Christmas gifts under a couple musty t-shirts. He tried to make the pile look as innocuous as possible, but when he calls back his own childhood, he and Sam got damn good at finding where their mom stowed away their presents.

But the t-shirts don’t look disturbed, so maybe Ben is just of a pain in the ass Dean and Sam were.

“So I’ve got some pretty fancy friggin’ Lego sets,” Dean says, as soon as Castiel closes the door behind him. He pulls the boxes out and sets them on top of his bed. It’s made – he may have done so just because he knew Cas would be in this room today.

Dean starts with his favorite, “So, this is totally a Lego Arkham Asylum,” he passes it on, “See, there’s a little Batman and Robin, and you’ve got Joker and Poison Ivy – it’s cool, right?”

“I think so,” Castiel says, “He does enjoy watching Batman cartoons, does he not?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean says, “Just checking. Anyway, to balance it out I got this thing with Spiderman and Doc Ock.”

“How does that balance it out?”

“Spiderman’s Marvel,” Dean says. Castiel blinks at him without understanding. It seems necessary to add, “Batman’s DC.”

“Ah,” says Castiel, “I am enlightened.”

“Shut up,” mutters Dean. He elbows Cas in the side but can’t help but laugh. It’s the last Lego set that has him more nervous than the others, because it’s the only one that Dean can’t for sure say that a nine year old boy would or would not be into. It’s just – well. It’s just based on his own observation.

Dean hands the set over to Cas and says, “This one, uh. I thought he’d like it ‘cause you know how he’s building all those towers in the living room all the time and they look like actual structures and shit? Man, when I was a kid I just slapped shit together but his have actual stuff going on. Yeah. And then I thought of this one, ‘cause you know. He’s Ben, and this is Big Ben. Get it?”

Cas’ brows lift up into his messy hair.

“C’mon. It’s funny, right?”

“Truthfully, I think that this is a very thoughtful Christmas gift, Dean,” Cas says. He hands the Big Ben Lego set back to Dean. There’s a whole Architecture series, it turns out, so if Big Ben goes over smoothly with Dean’s Son Ben then he’s got a crap-ton of material for birthday gifts, too.

Dean grabs at the back of his neck and replies, “Thanks, dude. That’s good. Awesome.”

Dean walks Cas through the rest of the presents he has set up for Christmas, including another guess-gift, an actual microscope with slides and a starter kit for looking at bacteria or whatever you look at with one of these things. Dean snagged a couple of games for the kid’s 3DS, too. He has it on good authority from the skinny kid behind the counter at Gamestop that Ben would definitely be into one of the newer Pokemon games. And hell, the Gamestop guy knows way more on that front than Dean does.

After Dean re-hides the merch, Cas rests a hand just below his shoulder. It almost feels like it’s burning into him and leaving a mark, skin searing and popping with nerves. It makes Dean’s head all fuzzy. He likes that sensation as much as hates it, because hey, a hot dude is way up in Dean’s personal space. On the other hand, that hot dude is his and his son’s social worker, and Dean has a poor history with relationships anyway.

But Dean doesn’t tell him to move.

“I think you did a remarkable job finding the gifts for Benjamin,” Castiel says.

Dean gnaws on his lower lip to stop himself from grinning the goofy smile he can feel coming from the throat up. He curls his toes in the carpet and says, “Thanks. I – yeah. Thank you. You’ve been a real help.”

Cas adds, “And thank you for my gifts, too. I can’t wait to try a slice of that pie.”

For a second, Dean would swear that Cas strokes his thumb against his arm, but he withdraws his hand so fast that it’s impossible to tell.

“Have a wonderful Christmas, you two,” Castiel tells them at the door.

“You too,” Dean says back, “Make good choices.”

Cas rolls his eyes, and Dean watches him go.

**X**

It’s a relief when, on Christmas morning, Ben is the first to wake. Dean stirs when he hears the creak of his bedroom door. With a groan, he opens his eyes, and sees Ben peering into the room between the door and the wall.

“Hey, kiddo.”

“It’s Christmas, Dean,” Ben says impatiently.

Dean rolls over and checks the time on his phone. Only six thirty six in the morning. Christ.

“Sure is,” Dean says. With a groan, he stretches his hands up behind his head and tilts his neck to get a good crack out of it. Dean says, “How about we get dressed so we can head on over to grandma’s? I’m gonna start some coffee for me before we get goin’, though, okay?”

“Yup,” Ben says, and like that, he’s gone.

Dean makes a special effort not to drag his feet, dressing warmly and shoving his feet into his boots with as much speed as he can muster before seven in the morning on a holiday. Still, he remembers the excitement of being a kid. He remembers bounding into his parents’ bedroom and pouncing onto their bed to announce that it was Christmas, and they had to wake up, because Santa came.

Dean just hopes that what “Santa” has brought for Ben is a welcome surprise. They’re not actually going to his mom’s house – they’re meeting everyone at the new place. The house that he and Ben picked out, that’s where they’re spending Christmas. For the most part the place is empty still, but Dean had Ellen tell Ben that his “dad had to stay late at work” when in reality he was buying an enormous Christmas tree to stick in the living room.

That, and Dean may have had a field day at Bed, Bath & Beyond buying himself new cooking pot sets.

But come on – Christmas wouldn’t be Christmas without tons of awesome food, and he can’t make tons of awesome food without the right tools. Even if his mom could have brought over her own cooking junk, Dean still wants his own.

With a travel mug of coffee in hand and a nine year old in tow, Dean starts up the Impala and pulls out of the apartment parking lot, rolling over piles of gray-brown slush and onto the road.

It only takes a few minutes for Ben to say, “This isn’t the way to grandma’s house.”

“Huh,” Dean says, “Think you’re right about that. Weird.”

“ _Dean_ ,” Ben says, “Where are we going?”

“It’s a surprise,” Dean says back. Ben huffs when Dean winks at him.

The willow outside the new place has icicles hanging off its slim branches. From the cars parked in the dirt drive up into the garage, Dean’s been beaten to the house by both Sam and Sarah and their kids, and his mom.

“We’re here,” Dean announces, and shuts off the car.

Ben stares at the house and then looks back to Dean. He can tell the instant that it dawns on the kid. His mouth opens a little before he exclaims, “Is this our house?”

“Merry Christmas, kid,” Dean says, “and say hi to our new place.”

Inside, the house already smells like cooking food, like bacon sizzling on the pan and eggs and pepper, and all the fixings of the perfect Christmas day breakfast. Dean hears a couple of voices from the direction of his new kitchen and then some shuffling as Jacob and Christine come running to throw themselves at him. Ellie toddles after with a half-opened present in her hand. She trips and falls on the carpet and announces, “Oops.”

“Oops for sure, baby girl,” Dean says, “Get your butt over here and give Uncle Dean a kiss, huh?”

Meanwhile, Ben runs for Mary, and Dean scoops Ellie up just in time to watch him launch himself at her.

Sam claps his hands together and says, “Hey, gang’s all here. I think it might be time for…presents?”

The word ‘presents’ has Jacob and Christine shrieking, Ben smiling, and Ellie kicking Dean directly in the gut to let him know that she wants to be let down. She stumbles over to Sarah, holds up the sort-of-wrapped present in her hand and says, “Present?”

The tree is awesome, if Dean says so himself. Granted, by the time it came to the actual decoration part of the process, Dean had to call in Sam and Jo to lend a hand, ‘cause man, he’d only ever kept a tiny plastic tree covered in mardi gras beads for his own apartment. Every Christmas before this one was spent either at Sam and Sarah’s or his mom’s place.

Piled up with presents, the one in front of them looks goddamn _resplendent._ There are colored lights and all kinds of ornaments (maybe more than a few ugly ones, since Dean had to rely on the donations of his family), and an angel right on top, plugged in and shining bright.

The kids grumble a little about not being allowed to dive in willy-nilly but take turns instead, but eventually they get around to a decent pattern of present opening. Jacob and Christine, apparently, asked Santa for the same Barbie, and received her in different colors. Ellie’s favorite is from Dean – a floppy-eared stuffed bunny.

And best of all, Ben likes everything that he opens from Dean/”Santa.”

Dean’s favorite gift is the set of matching quilts that his mom sewed for Ben and him, all dark blues and greens warm when they wrap the blankets around their shoulders. And when presents are through, they all leave the living room, formerly empty, now littered with happy shades of crumpled wrapping paper and brand new toys from wall to wall.

The liveliness of the Christmas breakfast has Ben smiling, and in turn Dean can’t help but feel some of that old spirit himself. He scoops bacon into his mouth to keep from grinning too hard, but his mom catches his eye and gives him a knowing look. It’s pride. That’s what that is. Dean tries to take it without thinking about his dad, knowing that he’d never be proud of Dean like Mary is, but it edges up on him from the back of his mind as it always does.

A peal of laughter from beside Dean, from Ben, snaps him out of it.

Maybe Dean didn’t do right by his dad.

But today, Dean at least did right by his son.

**X**

By two days before the new year, Dean and Ben are moved out of the apartment, though not all the way into the new house. Dean didn’t realize how much crap he had accumulated over the years until he had to sort it out and stick it into what feels like ten thousand-odd cardboard boxes. They’ve unpacked maybe a dozen or so thus far, and most them belonging to Ben.

The first priority of the move was, and is, to make sure that Ben gets comfortable. Dean can deal with snoozing on a mattress on the floor of an empty for a couple weeks while he gets his kid settled in. Ben – Ben needs something solid right off the bat. So Dean and Ben pick out the paint color for his new room (some dark-ish blue with the name ‘ _Midnight Soiree’,_ God help them all) and get cracking. Sam’s time is swallowed up by some case he’s on, so Dean gets help from Bobby and sometimes Ellen and Jo, or his mom.

And easy as that, they have Ben’s room painted, furnished and decorated.

It looks a lot like a bedroom that Dean would have loved to have as a kid, with new glow-in-the-dark stars and planets stuck all over the blue walls, and giant Lego structures all across Ben’s dresser.

(When Ben tells Dean over microwave dinners that his room “freaking rules”, he smiles about it all the way until he collapses onto his mattress-on-the-floor and passes out)

The state of disarray eases a little before Cas is due for his first official visit to the new place. Boxes still hide in odd corners around the place and the living room reeks like new paint with blue painter’s tape still stuck around the baseboards and ceiling. But, overall, the house is starting to look lived-in, cozier, like it’s more than just a building – that a family lives there.

The evening that Cas shows up is nice for being almost January. The snow from the past week has melted and left dry roads and brown lawns in its wake. The air is still and quiet, the only noise distant traffic from busier streets.

“Hey, man, welcome to the new joint,” Dean says, and sweeps an arm back into the house.

“It looks good,” remarks Cas, “Where can I find Ben?”

“Lemme show you,” Dean says, “He’s in his new room. Think it looks pretty nice.”

Castiel and Dean turn the corner and Dean gives a courtesy knock before he opens the door. Ben jumps up when he sees Cas and grabs him; Dean assumes to give him the grand tour. Dean gives a soft salute and says, “I’ll see you gentlemen later,” before trudging off to grab himself a beer.

The fridge is still pretty lacking, as far as the moving goes. Dean’s spent a buttload of cash on microwave meals and fast food, and mostly what they’ve got as far as actual food is chocolate milk for Ben and a couple of six packs for Dean. He takes a pull off of his cold one and wanders back to his guys.

“…I’m just tired of new places,” Ben’s voice says, “and I’m scared.”

The words pierce between Dean’s ribs like a knife sliding inside him. He feels cold all over. Before he can hear any more, he turns away and strides to the kitchen, where he collapses in a kitchen chair with his perspiring beer tight between his palms. He doesn’t even think about how long he sits there until he hears a footstep tread against the hardwood floors and looks up.

“I thought this would be a good idea,” Dean says lowly, “A home, you know? A home for a kid. Where he could grow and maybe – maybe be _happy_. And you backed me up! You fuckin’ said that this would be good. You said I’d be doing something good but instead Ben hates new places and he’s scared. I never wanted to scare my goddamn kid, Cas. That’s not what I wanted.”

“Dean,” Castiel begins.

“No. Don’t freakin’ ‘Dean’ me. I trusted you, and you fucked me up.”

“ _Dean_ ,” repeats Castiel, “Listen to me. Times of transition are difficult for children. Ben loves this home and as soon as the dust settles I’m certain that he’ll feel better about it all.”

“Yeah, and how am I supposed to know that that’s true? Sure you won’t just send me skipping down the friggin’ primrose path again?”

Cas’ eyes go cold, his lips narrowing to a thin line. For an instant the look in Cas’ eyes has Dean thinking he’s about to be charged and that he’ll have a fist in his face. Instead, Cas clenches his fists at his sides and says, “I can see that you aren’t willing to listen to reason at the moment. I am going to give you some time to calm down, but expect me tomorrow night to discuss this again.”

And just as quick as Cas arrived, he’s gone. The sound of the front door closing too quietly marks his absence and Dean – Dean just sits.

He takes another sip of his beer. The liquid seems to slide down into nothing.

“…Dean?”

The voice is tiny.

Dean looks up and sees Ben just barely peering around the corner. He looks terrified, like Dean’s the monster under his bed and they’re just now coming face to face for the first time. Dean wants to feel bad for freaking out his son but instead he’s only pissed off and bitter.

“What do you want?” he asks. He tries to keep his voice level.

“I do like this house!” exclaims Ben, “I do like it. I swear.”

“Then why the hell did you tell Cas otherwise, huh? Which one of are you lying to?” The words don’t even feel like they’re coming out of Dean’s mouth. They just are, and he can’t find it in himself to feel guilty about what he says, only guilty that he couldn’t build the home that he wanted to be able to.

Ben’s face scrunches up. Dean expects a cry, but the kid’s eyes don’t water, he just looks mad.

“I _hate you_ ,” Ben spits, and he runs. Little footsteps sound heavily against the floor.

The front door slams.

The silence that Ben leaves behind him makes the blood in Dean’s veins hotter, makes his heartbeat sound in his ears. He doesn’t stand up, just closes his eyes and tips back his beer bottle. He can’t even taste it, really, but having something cool against his seething anger helps. Maybe. Or maybe nothing will help, and he’s just a miniature John Winchester, like he’s always been destined to become.

Dean doesn’t move, even after he finishes his beer. Only after a long handful of minutes does he realize that he never heard the front door open again, and that he only ever heard it shake as it slammed closed.

He stumbles to his feet and throws open the front door.

“Ben?” he calls.

Maybe he just went to sit outside.

“Ben!” he shouts.

There’s no response.

Dean calls Ben’s name over and over until his ears ring and his throat hurts, but his son is nowhere. It’s just the pleasant freaking cul-de-sac that Dean thought might be a nice place to raise up a kid. He jogs down the sidewalk and looks either way along the connecting street.

With a shaking hand, Dean palms his phone and dials the first person he thinks of – “Mom?”

“Dean? What’s wrong?”

“Mom,” he says, “Ben’s missing.”


	5. Leave It to Us

**Chapter Track: Challengers – The New Pornographers**

**_Leave It to Us_ **

Mary will worry about giving her elder son a lecture when she isn’t worried sick over finding her grandson. Ben couldn’t have gotten far – or maybe he could have. It depends on how adventurous Ben is willing to be, or rather, how little strange areas scare him. If he’s anything like his father, he could be halfway to Timbuktu by now.

“Ben?” Mary calls, jogging down the bike path that runs along the backside of Dean’s street. She gets no answer, but she keeps trying, calling after her grandson over and over again.

Mary is more concerned for Ben than she is peeved with Dean, although at the moment it’s a tough contest. It still feels strange to think of Dean as a father. She imagined that one day Dean might come around, choose to settle and start a family, but she hadn’t pictured that settling turning out as it has. It figures that Dean would manage to begin fatherhood in the most difficult way imaginable. Being difficult has always been a specialty of his.

When Mary pauses for breath a few paces away from the playground that the bike path loops around, she spots a single child on a swing.

Relief overflows when she sees that it’s Ben, swaying back and forth, dragging his sneakers through the woodchips below. Her heart pinches at the sight of him so unhappy, but Mary can’t blame him. It can’t be easy for someone so young to lose somebody so important to them, and then be thrown into a den of strangers.

It’s all that she can do to make sure that they’re at least welcoming strangers.

With a long breath in, Mary strides to her grandson’s side. She takes a seat in the swing beside his and wraps her hands around the chains supporting her weight, metal cool against her palms. She asks, “Are you okay?”

“Dean doesn’t want me,” Ben says, “He thinks I don’t like our house and I don’t want to be there.”

Mary hums. Dean already told her as much. Gently, she places a hand on Ben’s back and says, “Sometimes the people that love us get angry and say things that they don’t mean.”

“Why is he angry?” Ben asks, “I don’t get what I did.”

Mary moves her hand over Ben’s back in soothing circles before she speaks. She says, “I think that his feelings got hurt because he didn’t understand what you were saying to Mr. Novak. Although he shouldn’t have been listening in anyway,” – Mary sighs – “he did it because he wanted to make sure that you’re happy. I know it might not seem like it, but Dean is trying to do the right thing. It’s just that he hasn’t had time to practice being a dad, so he’s making some mistakes.”

Ben doesn’t reply, but kicks at the wood chips a little harder. He doesn’t look Mary in the eye.

“Dean is really worried about you,” Mary tells him, “He’s looking everywhere for you. Do you think you might be ready to go back home now?”

“I don’t know,” Ben says, and sniffs, hard. He looks up then, and to Mary’s surprise, doesn’t look to have shed a tear. The expression on his face, however, could be described as nothing short of devastated. It hurts her heart to know what put that look on Ben’s face.

“I think maybe he should at least know that you’re okay,” says Mary, “What do you think?”

Ben reluctantly nods, and follows Mary’s lead when she stands up. He trails behind her instead of at her side, so she paces herself as she walks and keeps an eye on Ben the entire time. She does break her full attention for the few moments it takes to send Dean a text message that she found Ben, and that they’ll meet Dean back at his house, but when she finishes, she offers Ben her hand.

For a long moment, Ben just stares at Mary’s outstretched hand. Then, he decides to take it.

The instant that Dean spots them approaching the house, he runs down the driveway straight at his son, and kneels on the sidewalk to wrap Ben up in his arms. Ben doesn’t hug back. Instead, he lets his arms hang limp at his sides. Mary frowns.

“I’m so sorry, kiddo,” Dean says, pulling back from Ben, “What I did wasn’t right. I promise I’ll work on being a better dad, all right?”

Ben just gives a quiet, “Okay,” in response.

Mary can see the hurt in Dean’s face, no matter how hard he tries to mask it behind a stone expression. He’s always been one to pretend that he isn’t hurting when he is. In this case, that may be best, at least for the night. That doesn’t mean she has to like it, though.

As they walk back into the house, Mary murmurs, “You’ll figure it out, honey.”

Dean’s frown deepens, and he scratches absently at his arm before he says, “Yeah. I hope so.” But it doesn’t sound like Dean believes he can.

**X**

“I don’t care what the circumstances were or are; you still can’t yell at your child the way that you did!” Castiel paces in front of Dean, redness at the apples of his cheeks and tips of his ears. He wheels on Dean and aims one hell of a glare at him before he continues, “You don’t take your moods out on your child. That isn’t how parenting works. And you certainly don’t take your bad moods out on me, either, Mr. Winchester.”

Dean’s throat goes dry at ‘Mr. Winchester.’ The formality makes him sick to his stomach, although that isn’t nearly as bad as the shame that creeps up in Dean’s gut like weeds. He thinks of his dad, of how everyone in the household walked on eggshells, how things that weren’t Dean’s fault were blamed on him anyway. If anyone had an opinion, that opinion was second to John’s. Didn’t matter if the opinion was on your own life or your own feelings. Didn’t matter a bit.

Wet burns behind Dean’s eyes and his throat clogs.

He’s ten all over again, getting shouted at for something he doesn’t understand.

That thought is all it takes to lose it. Dean takes in a shuddering breath and then just – starts to cry.

“Fuck,” Dean says, “Fuck, I’m sorry. Keep going. I’m good.”

Cas doesn’t keep going, though. The fury in his face dims, mouth slumping into an open expression of surprise. He stops pacing and instead sits down. Castiel scoots his chair closer to Dean and says, “I apologize for upsetting you, but it’s my job to make sure that Ben lives in as safe and happy an environment as humanly possible.”

“I’m turning out just like my dad, Cas,” Dean says, without looking Castiel in the eye. He swipes angrily at his face but can’t stem the flow of the stupid goddamn tears. He holds his face in his hands, shakes his head, and says, “I shouldn’t be allowed to have a kid.”

A warm palm lands on Dean’s bicep and squeezes. Dean looks up to see Cas gazing at him. It’s intense, the way that all of Cas’s looks are. Instead of looking away, Dean tries to hold the stare, even though he knows he’s probably looks like shit from crying like an idiot in his social worker’s office.

“You have the capacity to be a great dad,” Castiel tells him, “but you’re learning. No one becomes an exemplary parent overnight. Trust me. Everyone has to adapt. Your situation makes adjusting a different experience than most parents have. I didn’t mean to shout at you. I just – I know that you’re a good man, and I know that you know how to be a great dad. You have to believe that you can.”

“Sounds like a cat poster,” Dean mutters.

“Maybe,” Cas agrees, “but that doesn’t make it any less true.”

Something crackles between them like static electricity when Dean meets Cas’s eyes again.

Christ, Dean thinks, he can’t do this. He can’t keep looking at his _social worker_ and thinking that it’s a good idea to snake his way into those ugly-ass slacks. But his brain leaps ahead of him anyway, and decides to think it’s a fucking fabulous idea. Before Dean can stop himself, he’s got a naked social worker all over him in his mind’s eye.

Cas blinks at him like he knows exactly what the hell Dean’s thinking.

Dean clears his throat and asks, “You think you’ll ever be a dad?”

“I might,” Cas says, “but ideally I’d like to find a partner first, somebody that I love. But I’ve never been good at dating.”

“Dude, just put yourself out there,” Dean says, “Anyone would be lucky to have you.” Not me, he adds to himself, because I am Definitely Not Allowed to Go There. He tries to tamp down the little bloom of warmth he feels at the thought of _Dean and Cas_ as a single unit. It’s not a train of thought that he should be hopping on. Nope.

And then it occurs to him: Who’s to say that Cas would want him anyway? Dean sinks down in his seat as his stomach drops out. He’s spent all this time thinking up Cas that he didn’t even remember that he’s not worth shit compared to somebody like Cas.

Dean’s a crappy parent with a mediocre job. He doesn’t have a college degree, doesn’t even have a high school diploma.

God, he’s an idiot.

**X**

The mood at home slips into an everyday kind of awkwardness. Ben and Dean dance around one another and mostly avoid each other outside of meals and car rides to and from school. Sometimes Dean thinks about trying to talk about something – anything – but always gives up before he can think of something to say.

“Routine awkwardness” is not what Dean would have pegged for his life a year ago, but here he is. Every damn day he’s working his life around a petulant ten-year-old who wants about as much to do with Dean as Dean wants to have with airplanes.

Which is to say nothing.

Cas still comes for visits and while he doesn’t outright tell Dean that he’s doing a crappy job of being a father, he lacks some pretty vital enthusiasm. Meanwhile, winter thaws into a muggy spring, bugs of all kinds out early and eager to bite anyone that dares bare skin outdoors. When Ben brings home a newsletter about his class holding an end-of-the-year celebration and asking for parent volunteers, Dean can’t believe it.

He used to hate when his mom would pet his hair and say, ‘Where has the time gone?’ as he grew up, but damn. Where has the time gone? His kid’s graduating the fourth grade. That means Ben’s only got one year left in elementary school and then it’s off to the puberty zoo for the foreseeable future.

What’s he supposed to do if Ben asks him about girls? Hell, what if Ben asks him about _boys_? That’s a conversation Dean’s not sure that he wants to have. _You see, son, you’re a raging queer just like your dad. That’s all fine and dandy, but you’re gonna run into hordes of people that feel like being grade-A douchewheels about it._ Like what Dean has on and/or around his genitalia is anybody’s dang business but his own.

“Oh, I remember freaking out like this,” sighs his mom over the phone when he calls her one lazy, sunny afternoon.

“Thanks, mom,” Dean says, “That’s real helpful.”

“You hush,” Mary says, “You’ll be just fine. Ben’s still years away from being a teenager. You don’t have to get ahead of yourself. Let Ben enjoy being a kid while he still is, and then you go and enjoy it too. You’re a smart man, honey. I know that you’ll figure it out.”

Dean isn’t so sure, even after his mom reassures him for the millionth time. He spends his day off puttering around the house and doing chores, cleaning out the God-awful bathroom and vacuuming every inch of the house. He finishes up with the kitchen, which is dirtier than he realize. There’s grease on the stovetop and crumbs crammed in every corner.

As Dean starts rinsing the dishes in the sink, he stares outside at the backyard. It’s bare. Too bare, especially considering that a kid lives here. There should be something, even just a soccer ball, some kind of toy. But nope, just an ill-kept lawn starting to grow green and wild in time for the start of summer, and some old-ass trees.

“Shit,” Dean says out loud. He gawks at the trees, and wonders why he didn’t think of it before. The tree in the center is a beast, a thick trunk and gnarled roots, sturdy branches stretching up to form an intimidating figure.

Dean is going to build his son a treehouse.

**X**

When Dean pulls the Impala into the garage, he almost blurts out to Ben what he’s doing. It’s Friday – he knows Ben has nothing better to do than to help his old man build a treehouse, but there’s nothing saying that the kid would want to do something like that at all. He follows Ben into the house in time to watch him dump his backpack on the floor and shuck off his shoes in the middle of the living room.

“Yo, pick up your shoes,” Dean says.

Ben heaves a tired sigh and rolls his eyes, but picks up his shoes and places them neatly at the front door where they’re supposed to be. Dean tries to play it cool as he cracks open a beer and steps into the backyard to continue his project. So far, all he’s got is a pile of lumber in the middle of the yard and his tools assembled on the slab of concrete that they call the back porch.

“Why is there so much crap in the backyard?”

Dean turns and sees Ben at the sliding glass door, a glass of juice in his hand and his feet bare. God only knows where his socks went in between putting his shoes at the door and grabbing himself something to drink.

“I,” Dean says, “am building a treehouse.”

“What! No way.”

“Yeah way. You’re welcome to help out if you want. I already drew up some designs while you were at school. You wanna take a look at ‘em?”

“Sure,” Ben says. He pads out to where Dean stands in the grass with the plans (sloppy, but good enough).

Dean lowers the paper so that Ben can see and says, “See, I’m gonna build you a rope ladder in case you wanna chill out by yourself.”

“What’s this?” asks Ben, and points to the outer edge of the house.

“That’s your deck,” Dean says, “So you’ll have an inside, and a place for outside, too, just like a real house. What do you think?”

“It’s awesome,” Ben says, “Can we paint it?”

“Sure, kiddo,” says Dean, “What d’you say we go and pick out some colors at Home Depot on Sunday when I’m off of work? That should give us some time to start building.”

“Yeah!” Ben exclaims. And that…that’s got to be genuine excitement.

“Right on,” Dean says, and offers his hand for a high five.

Ben doesn’t even hesitate. He smacks Dean’s palm with his own, a big ol’ toothy smile on his face all the way through. They set straight to work, and even through the parts that Dean thought would bore the heck outta the kid, Ben pays rapt attention, nodding seriously when Dean gives him a task of his own. It’s almost hard for Dean to get his own work done when he sees just how dedicated Ben is to the simplest freakin’ thing, like taking the tape measure and penciling on where Dean needs to saw the wood down to size.

When the sun goes down, Ben frowns. He says, “Can we work on it tomorrow, too?”

“We’ll see, buddy,” Dean says, “I got work most of the day, but I’ll see if I can’t get Uncle Bobby to let me go a little bit early.” He knows Bobby won’t tell him no. More often than not, Dean’s stayed later at Singer Salvage & Repair than strictly necessary. This is because, like a coward, he’s been avoiding his own son.

Mostly out of fear of fucking up more.

Ben makes a face and replies, “Okay. Can you tell Uncle Bobby that I said _pretty pretty please_ with a cherry on top?”

Dean chuckles and says, “I’ll be sure to pass that on.”

And, as predicted, when Dean asks to take off a couple hours early to work on a treehouse with Ben, Bobby gives him a hearty ‘Hell yeah, boy,’ and about pushes him out the door. However, he does first raise his scruffy brows and ask, “Oh, you decided you’re done being a little shit?”

“Shut up,” Dean says, “…Yes. Maybe. I don’t know.”

Bobby shakes his head and says goodbye with a, “Yeah, yeah. Get your ass outta here. If I see your sorry hide more than five minutes from now, I’m kickin’ you out myself.

Ben lights up like a parade when he sees Dean at the Roadhouse. He grins wide and asks, “Do we get to work on the treehouse?”

“Yup,” Dean says.

They start with the frame (They meaning Dean, because like hell he’s letting his son up in a tree without ready support and with a drill in his hand). As soon as Dean has the frame up, though, he allows Ben to join him up in the tree, under the condition that he be as careful as possible.

“We don’t want Mr. Novak to get mad, do we?” asks Dean.

Ben shakes his head, “Nope.”

It’s a lot more grunt work to build a treehouse with your kid than Dean expected, and all at once he understands why his own dad wouldn’t do something like this. It takes real effort. He could be inside reading or on his ass watching The Twilight Zone with a cold beer in his hand, but instead, he’s out in the mid-spring heat, sweating like a stuck pig while he sits in a tree with power tools and a nine-year-old.

Both he and Ben have sunburns by the end of working on Saturday, but the satisfaction is worth it. They have a good portion of the structure built, now with a floor and the promise rope ladder (which Ben made himself, though Dean checked the stability of the thing before he gave the go-ahead for attaching it).

On Sunday, Dean wakes up to pressure on his chest and Ben’s voice declaring, “Wake up, Dean! We have to get paint for the treehouse.”

“Ngghh,” Dean manages.

“Don’t worry, I already started your coffee,” Ben says.

That gets Dean’s full attention. He sits right up and Ben rolls down to Dean’s legs, unbothered by the shift. Dean plays it cool and says, “All right, we’ll get going.”

Ben didn’t put a coffee filter in the machine. Dean grimaces at the pot but doesn’t let his kid see the expression, just turns around and says, “Thanks for making my coffee, bud.”

“You’re welcome,” Ben says. He rocks back and forth on his feet with a smile on his face.

So Dean endures gritty, kind-of-scorched coffee, because he doesn’t want to wipe the smile off of Ben’s face. He pours the concoction into one of his travel mugs and douses it with a healthy dollop of half n’ half. It won’t fix the taste completely, but it’ll at least help. He hopes. He takes the mug into the shower with him and knocks back as much as he can in between scrubbing his hair clean and soaping up the smelly places.

Once Dean is dressed with hair combed, he finds Ben waiting for him right by the garage door, already set to go with shoes tied and a Zepp shirt on.

“Lookin’ good,” Dean says.

Ben smiles.

In the Impala, Dean asks, “So, what color do you wanna paint the treehouse?”

“Can we paint the inside and the outside?” asks Ben.

“I don’t see why not. Why, you want two different colors?”

“Yeah,” says Ben.

“All right, kiddo. We can do that,” Dean says. He reaches forward and cranks the volume. Jimi Hendrix plays back at him. When they hit a red light, Dean lets go of the steering wheel to break out some air guitar, and Ben laughs. Out of the corner of his eye, Dean watches Ben try to imitate with his own air guitar.

And hey, the kid’s not bad.

Dean finds a quality space in front of Home Depot. He lets Ben take control of the shopping cart, although whether or not they’ll need it is up in the air. Doesn’t matter, ‘cause Ben has a blast riding it from the front entrance to the paint section, where he stops and doesn’t pause a beat before he starts pouring over the paint chips.

“So, you never said what colors you want,” Dean says.

“I don’t know yet,” Ben says, “Well, maybe I want the outside to be blue. I like blue. No. Wait. I want the outside to be yellow, ‘cause that’s mom’s favorite.”

“That’s an awesome idea,” Dean says. He steers Ben toward the section of exterior paints instead of the vaster interior section. He wants the color to hold for as long as he can make it with only two coats. Dean starts flipping through yellows in one section while Ben peruses another.

“How about this one?” suggests Dean, “It’s called _Lemon Lime._ ”

“It looks like baby poop,” Ben says.

Dean glances back at the paint chip and says, “Dang, you’re right,” and places the card back where he found it.

“What d’you think of _Yellow Flash_?” asks Dean.

Ben takes the paint chip from Dean’s hands and says, “We’ll put it in the maybe pile.”

“There’s a maybe pile?”

“Yup,” Ben says, and tosses the _Yellow Flash_ paint chip into the shopping cart, “Right there.”

Soon, _Marigold_ joins _Yellow Flash_ , although Ben outright rejects _Citrus Zest_ , because it “looks like soup.” Dean can’t argue that point. It does, in fact, look like some kind of soup.

“Dude, this one’s called _Lizard Breath_ ,” Dean says.

“Is not,” Ben says back, and snatches the paint chip from Dean’s hands, “Oh. But it’s kind of ugly.”

In the end, the yellow color that they end up with is called _Lemon Tart_ , because it is the exact shade of yellow that Lisa liked to wear, and something close to the color that she and Ben painted their kitchen two summers ago. The inside, Ben says, will be blue, because that’s his favorite color, but it can’t be “too” blue, or it will look stupid.

Dean sifts through and finds a good candidate, only to see that it’s called _Velvet Evening,_ which sounds like the name of a porno. So, he puts it back. Not a half-second later, Ben presents one that he likes to Dean. It’s called _Planetarium._

“Cool,” Dean says, “We could even stick those glowing star thingies on the inside. Then it’s like you’re in space.”

**X**

It takes Ben and Dean the better part of two and a half weeks to finish the treehouse in its entirety, but when it’s complete, Dean doesn’t regret even an instant of the work. Ben is so stoked about the treehouse being ready to go that it’s like he’s on a sugar high, darting from place to place in the grocery store on a Monday night to gather snacks for their official treehouse ceremonial camp-out.

**Art by[assbutt-i-might-be](http://assbutt-i-might-be.tumblr.com/) on tumblr**

The thrill is palpable when they return home and swap day clothes for pajamas, loading up with sleeping bags and pillows. Dean does most of the transporting, having more arm to work with, but Ben refuses to stand by and watch, and takes the food up for them both.

It’s perfect.

This is everything Dean always wanted as a kid. Their camping lanterns cast a yellow glow against the blue walls. When they turn out the lights for sleep, Dean’s sure that the little plastic stars and planets will glow above them. With the trap door in the floor closed, there’s just enough room for the two of them and their food to cram in for a night of messing around.

The two little windows have mosquito netting for curtains, and though Dean’s sure that won’t hold off every bug that wants to be inside, it makes everything just that much cozier.

Ben dips his hand into his bag of potato chips and stuffs an entire handful in his mouth.

Dean laughs and asks, “You got enough chips there?”

Ben swallows and answers, “No. Pass the Doritos.”

Outside, over the crunch of Ben chewing Nacho Cheese Doritos, crickets chirp. This shit is idyllic as it can get. Dean’s gaze slides over to his son. A soft smile edges up onto his face at the sight. The resemblance between them is pretty clear when Ben stuffs his face. It’s surreal.

 _I made that_ , Dean thinks. Or, he helped make that. Lisa did all the hard stuff. But without a doubt, Dean had a hand in making this little boy, whose smile makes Dean feel warm from the inside, and whose enthusiasm is infectious. Dean could be getting hopeful, but he thinks that his kid is genuinely happy, and he thinks it’s all because of a little treehouse.

On one wall, the words _Dean and Ben_ _were here_ leap out, painted in the yellow of the outside against the blue of the inside. Ben insisted on signing his own name in clunky, loopy cursive.

“I think my mom would have liked the treehouse,” Ben says.

The words are so quiet that Dean almost doesn’t hear them.

“Yeah?” he says, “Why’s that?”

“’Cause we made it. ‘Cause it makes me happy,” Ben says, “And because it’s yellow. Mom’s favorite dress was yellow.”

“Your mom was one of a kind,” Dean says. He wants to avoid telling Ben ‘your mom was beautiful’, because yeah, Lisa was a knockout, but she was way more than just that. Lisa was smart and she was practical. She was bendy (although Dean won’t be sharing _that_ with Ben). Shit, Lisa raised a kid all by herself and he turned out fantastic.

“I used to make stuff with my mom, too,” Ben says, “I helped her make dinner sometimes. And cookies and stuff.”

Yeah, Lisa made good cookies too.

She wasn’t perfect. Not that Dean has room to talk. Lisa was impatient but still had more patience than Dean. She hated cleaning house and had a short fuse if you got on the wrong side of her nerves. But those things – they’re as much a part of Lisa as any of her good qualities.

“We used to play games sometimes too,” Ben says, “Maybe…maybe we could play games?”

“What kind?”

“Like Sorry or Battleship,” Ben clarifies.

“Dude,” Dean says, “I totally have Battleship inside. You want me to bring it out?”

“Yeah,” Ben says. A little smile turns up his lips.

Dean cracks open the trap door and lets the rope ladder roll down before he slips through the space. His original plan for the treehouse had a smaller trap door, but. Well. Turns out when you get older you start to put on some pounds. He couldn’t exactly get through and may or may not have been laughed at by his son. He jogs into the house and to his bedroom, where he keeps the old board games stored in his closet. Dean blows the dust off of the Battleship box and carries it back outside.

He and Ben play Battleship until Ben can’t keep his eyes open. The kid snuggles up in his sleeping bag, and Dean turns off the lanterns. His head hits the pillow, and he feels content down to his very core. His stomach’s full of junk food, and his heart’s full of something. Something good. Something awesome. Something that he’s never had before.

Only in the middle of the night, he’s pulled from sleep by the sound of sniffling. Dean opens his eyes to see his son sitting up, crying quietly.

“What’s going on, buddy?” Dean asks.

“I had a nightmare,” Ben says.

“You think a hug might help?”

Ben nods.

Dean jerks his head, “Get over here.”

Ben leaps at Dean and presses his face into his chest. Dean wraps his arms around Ben and pulls him in close. It feels right to be able to give Ben this, to be able to hold him when he’s scared. Dean runs his palm over Ben’s back and rocks him, just like his mom would rock him after he had his own bad dreams.

“Dean?” Ben says into Dean’s shirt.

“Yeah, kiddo?”

“I miss my mom,” Ben says, “but I’m glad I got you.”

**X**

A rhythmic knock at the door pulls Dean out of his daydream. He drops a half-clean plate into the soapy water below and splashes his shirt. He bites back a swear, just in case it’s one of their elderly neighbors at the door again. Because one or the other lost their cat. Again.

But it’s just Cas. He’s dressed for business.

“Oh, hey,” Dean says, “I forgot you were coming today.”

“And here I am,” Cas says, “Where’s Benjamin?”

“Uh, I think he’s hanging out in the treehouse,” Dean says.

“The…treehouse?” Castiel questions.

Right. Cas hasn’t visited since the treehouse has been built. Dean’s face splits into a wide grin and he says, “Yeah, me n’ Ben built a treehouse in the backyard. You wanna come see it?”

“I think I’m obligated to, whether or not I ‘want’ to,” Cas says.

“Eh, don’t be a spoilsport,” Dean waves him off, “It’s super badass.”

Dean guides Cas from the front door to the back, even though he knows that Cas knows the way himself. They step out onto the back porch and Dean holds out both hands, declaring, “Ta-da!”

Castiel’s expression is worth a million words. He cocks his head at the sight, then glances between Dean and the treehouse and says, “You and Ben built that?”

“Yup,” Dean says, “You wanna see if Ben’ll let us up, Safety Inspector?”

“Yes, that would be best,” says Cas.

Dean and Cas cross the grass, and Dean lets out a loud whistle to alert Ben that he’s below. It’s usually how he calls him for dinner or asks to be allowed to come into the hideout. Ben comes out to the tiny balcony and waves. He says, “Hi, Mr. Novak. Do you like my treehouse?”

“It’s very impressive,” Cas says, “Do you mind if your father and I come inside?”

“Yeah, just give me a second,” Ben says. He ducks back in, and a moment later, the rope ladder unrolls, swaying back against the heavy trunk of the tree.

“After you,” Dean says.

Castiel gives him an uncertain look, but takes ahold of the ladder and starts to climb. As soon as he disappears through the trap door, Dean follows. Inside, Cas’s eyes dart from right to left, taking in the glory of it all, from the glow-in-the-dark stars to Dean and Ben’s signatures painted on the wall to the mosquito netting to the nest that Ben’s made himself with pillows and blankets, his 3DS nestled in the middle of it.

“Me and Dean made it all by ourselves,” Ben says, “I measured all the wood and picked out the paint colors. It’s yellow because that’s what my mom would have liked.”

“It’s a very nice color,” Castiel says.

“We had a sleepover and played Battleship,” Ben goes on, “and Dean lets me do my homework out here and sometimes we’re even allowed to eat dinner in the treehouse if it’s warm and not raining. Do you like it, Mr. Novak?”

“It’s wonderful,” Cas says. The look he tosses over his shoulder to Dean confirms that he must be telling the truth. He clears his throat and says, “Well, unless you have anything else you’d like to discuss, Dean and I will leave you to your video games.”

“It’s a 3DS.”

“Yes. That,” says Cas.

They climb back down and cross the lawn, back into the house, where Dean offers Cas some coffee. Castiel accepts, so Dean starts a pot (now free of coffee grounds, though it took forever to clean all that gunk out after Ben’s adventure with the coffee maker).

“This looks great, Dean,” Cas says, “It seems that things may be looking up?”

“I hope so,” Dean says. He watches the coffee dribble into the pot for a few seconds before he turns and rests against the counter, crossing his arms over his chest. He goes on, “I wanna give Ben things that I never had. I wanna – I want to make sure that he doesn’t feel like he stopped being a kid when he was nine, you know? I panicked about him growing up ‘cause he’s gonna be in fifth grade and all, and my mom kinda talked some sense into me.”

“Your mother is a smart woman,” Castiel says.

“Yeah, she is.”

“And you are a smart man,” adds Cas, “I think that this is a large step in the right direction. This is leaps and bounds away from what I saw during my last visit. This is excellent.”

Dean can’t help but preen under the praise. Behind him, the coffee maker beeps. He’s grateful. It snaps him back from a dangerous train of thought, the one he has when he isn’t paying attention. The train of thought that involves maybe putting his mouth on Cas’s mouth. Mm.

Dean pours coffee into two mugs. When he turns around, Cas is looking at him funny, like Dean has something on his face.

“What’s up?” Dean asks, “Why’re you looking at me like that?”

Color rises in Cas’s cheeks. It’s not something that Dean has ever seen the guy do before. He’s always so serious, so reserved. He’s not like Dean, whose Irish coloring betrays every emotion he ever has and turns him pink at the most inopportune moments.

Cas coughs into his fist and says, “Nothing. Sorry.”

Dean slides Castiel’s coffee to him and gives him a light sock in the shoulder.

Maybe he can’t put his mouth on Cas’s mouth, but would it still be unprofessional if they were just friends?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, hopefully I will be able to provide you guys with regular updates from here on out. They probably will not be as frequent as I used to update, but I hope to be pretty reliable. Also, if there were any mistakes in this, forgive me. It was mostly unbeta'd.


	6. You Can Always Be Found

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note some of the new tags.

**Chapter Track: Home – Phillip Phillips**

**_You Can Always Be Found_ **

Seldom does Castiel enjoy the luxury of sleeping in, though it’s a luxury he values. Today, a Saturday, he indulges himself. When he does finally roll out of bed, he yawns and stretches. He spares a glance at himself in the bathroom mirror and tries to arrange his hair to lay flatter with little success. Ah, well. It’s the weekend, a day off, and Castiel doesn’t have anybody to look important for. It’s just him – and Gabriel, passed out drunk on his sofa.

Unless Gabe has woken, but Castiel doubts that.

Sure enough, when Cas emerges from his bedroom mid-yawn, Gabriel lies sprawled across the couch exactly as Cas left him the night before, tucked up under a spare blanket. Before he starts breakfast, he fills a glass from the tap and places it on the end table nearest Gabriel’s head, side by side with two ibuprofen. It may be a while yet until he’s awake, but Castiel learned from experience that it’s best to be prepared when Gabriel comes into play.

And Gabriel is in play often, being that Hannah won’t tolerate him drunk in her apartment, and he imbibes alcohol more than any thirty-something should, truly.

As Castiel starts heats his kettle on the stove and tips coffee grounds into his French press, his mind drifts to Dean Winchester. It often has in more recent days, and he isn’t sure that he likes that. He knows he is attracted to Dean. There’s no way to dispute that; it is a fact. Another fact is that if his attraction to Dean comes to light in the workplace he will be, as Gabriel would say, in deep shit.

Castiel should not become entangled with a parent that he’s working with. It’s wrong, and while it may reflect poorly on Castiel, it would reflect poorly on Dean tenfold.

And yet, he temptation wraps around him like a boa constrictor.

Mechanically, Castiel pours steaming water into the press and sets the timer on his microwave to monitor the brew while he mixes himself a simple breakfast. He loves fatty foods, but this morning he chooses yogurt and granola instead, mixing the two together with a handful of blueberries and bits of apple from a Tupperware container in his refrigerator.

The smell of coffee must rouse Gabriel – he groans from the couch, dragging himself up just enough to tip back the water and pills.

“Christ,” he says, “Helluva night. Mind if I grab some of your joe?”

Castiel sweeps his hand at the press in a ‘by all means’ gesture. Gabriel takes down a mug but only fills it about halfway before he adds half-n-half, a veritable bucket of sugar, and whipped cream that Castiel didn’t even realize he owned, and does not know how long has been in his home.

“What’s up?” Gabriel asks, nabbing the seat across from Castiel.

“Hm? Nothing.”

Gabe tips coffee down his throat and comes away with whipped cream covering his mouth. He licks off what he can, and wipes the rest away with the hem of his t-shirt. He says, “You look like you’re taking a hella painful shit, cuz. There’s something up in that noodle of yours.”

Castiel rolls his eyes and avoids an immediate answer by sticking a spoonful of breakfast in his mouth.

“It’s not important,” he decides on saying, once he’s swallowed.

Gabe makes a face. He says, “If it wasn’t important, you wouldn’t look like you’re running for Mister Constipation 2014.”

If Castiel doesn’t say _something_ , his cousin will badger him into the grave. He lets out a long breath and replies, “I…it’s a parent. At work.”

Like that, Gabriel clams up. His eyes shift down to his sugary potion, and he mutters, “Oh.” Few topics of conversation are out of Gabriel’s comfort zone, but Castiel’s occupation is among the handful that bother him. Others include Gabriel’s parents, Gabriel’s drug use, Gabriel’s stint in prison, and Gabriel’s potential parole violations.

“Dean isn’t like that,” Castiel jumps to defend. This, second to his embarrassment at the situation at hand, is why he didn’t want to talk to Gabriel about Dean Winchester. One can hardly blame Gabriel for his distaste for hearing about parents and the system, as his own experience is the foundation for his wild behavior and jail-time. Cas goes on, “He’s nothing like your dad.”

“Thanks, dick.”

Uncle Zachariah was not a prize.

He was, in fact, a wolf in sheep’s clothing.

And Castiel is the one that found out.

It’s why he does the job that he does.

“Gabriel,” Castiel says, eyes narrowed, “Might I remind you that you are the one that asked me what’s on my mind? I don’t have to keep talking if you’d rather I didn’t.”

“No, no,” Gabe says, holding up a hand, “Keep going. Tell me about this Dean dude.”

“Dean’s situation is unique,” says Castiel, “Up until several months ago, he didn’t know that he had a son – Benjamin. Ben’s mother passed away from illness, and the documents dictated that custody of Ben should go to Dean. Obviously he needed to be monitored to make certain he provides a happy and healthy home for his son. I’ll admit that I didn’t expect much, but he’s gone above and beyond everything I’d want a parent to do for their child. That man would go to the ends of the earth for his son. He built him a treehouse just last week and it’s a work of art.”

At the end of a sip of coffee, Gabriel says, “So you’ve got a giant boner for this guy.”

“If you mean that I’m attracted to him, then yes. But it would be unethical to become romantically involved with a parent that I’m working with on a professional level.”

“So pass ‘em off to somebody else,” Gabe shrugs, “Then you’re home free.”

“I can’t do that,” Cas says, frowning at his yogurt, “I’ve developed a rapport with Ben and Dean and I don’t want them to be subject to a complete stranger through the rest of the process. Benjamin has been through enough already. He deserves my full attention.”

“So you’re in love with the kid too.”

Like lightning it strikes Castiel that his cousin is right.

“Damn it,” he groans.

**X**

School lets out for the summer without a crisis. Dean thinks about Ben getting older, but it doesn’t scare the shit out of him. He decides he’ll just be there along for ride, and watch it happen. There’s no other way.

More often than not, Ben has his buddy Krissy over to hang out, or have a playdate, or whatever the kids are calling it these days. Mr. Chambers is a workaholic to the _nth_ degree, and seems more than happy to dump Krissy on Dean’s doorstep whenever it’s convenient. But whatever, Dean doesn’t mind. She’s a pretty calm kid, serious in the same way Ben is – the way kids are when they know too much for their age.

Still, Ben seems happier when she’s around. He’s more playful. More of…a kid. It’s a relief, some weight off of Dean’s back, to watch them play together in the backyard like normal kids should. Sometimes they’re pirates or warriors and they trade off needing to be rescued pretty equally. Today, Dean thinks they might be playing aliens, but he’s not sure. As he looks out the kitchen window and into the yard, all he can really discern is that they’re spraying each other with water guns and making laser noises.

Hey, with the June heat climbing, it’s not a half-bad idea. Maybe Dean’ll jump around in the sprinklers with them.

He jumps from his thoughts at the sound of the doorbell, and sets down his half-drunk beer.

To his surprise, he finds Castiel Novak on his doorstep.

“Uh, hey,” Dean says, “What’s up? I didn’t know you were visiting today.” He probably would have broken out the jeans without holes in them and a shirt that he hasn’t had since the early side of high school, had he known.

“I know you didn’t,” Cas says, “It’s a surprise visit. I make them from time to time. Where’s Ben?”

Huh. Usually the dude says ‘Benjamin.’ Maybe next Ben’ll start calling Cas by his first name instead of ‘Mr. Novak.’

The familiarity of it all shouldn’t be so damn exciting to Dean.

“He’s out in the back with Krissy,” Dean says, inclining his head behind him, “They’re playing space aliens or something. I don’t know. I can’t follow what they’re doing half of the time. You want something to drink?”

“No, thank you,” Castiel replies. He peers out the kitchen window while Dean retrieves his beer, taking a pull off of the top while he watches Cas. His social worker. His very attractive social worker. Dean tries not to flush when Cas catches him staring.

Castiel hums and asks, “How are things going?”

“Pretty good,” Dean says, “I think – I mean, I hope Ben’s happier. He seems pretty good with Krissy around.”

“And when it’s just the two of you?”

“I don’t know. We’re not argument-free, but he likes to help me make dinner now and watches movies with me. And we play Battleship up in the treehouse, like…all the time. You’d think mosquito netting would help but I swear to God those little fuckers are everywhere. I have bites on my ass. Where I wear clothing. What the hell, am I right?”

Castiel chuckles. He says, “It sounds like you’re doing well.”

“I think so,” Dean echoes his earlier sentiment, “I hope so.”

“And his birthday is coming up. Do you have any celebration plans?”

Oh, shit. Cas is right. It’s June. Ben turns ten in June.

Well, crap.

“I’ll have to ask him what he wants to do,” Dean says weakly.

Castiel gives him a look and asks, “So, you hadn’t thought about it before now?”

“Not exactly,” Dean says, and rubs the back of his neck, “I guess that sounds pretty crappy. Time’s just been flying by, Cas.”

“I’m not criticizing you,” says Castiel, “but it’s important that you make this birthday a special day for Ben. You don’t want him to remember his first birthday without his mother as an unhappy occasion.”

“No, hell no, of course not,” Dean says. He tries not to feel gutted at the idea of throwing a crap birthday party for his son. Ben deserves the best, the kind of birthday parties that Dean would never have gotten to celebrate in a million kajillion years. He gnaws on his lower lip and says, “I’ll do whatever I can to make it good. But, um. You think you could come to the party? I think it would help. You know. To have you there.”

“I’d love you attend,” Cas says, “You can text my personal number with the details as soon as Benjamin’s made a choice.”

Back to ‘Benjamin’, then.

“Yeah, I’ll do that,” Dean says. He sounds too eager, and he doesn’t care. He shouldn’t be so excited at the prospect of hanging out with Cas in a more casual environment again, where they can relax and just be happy, where they can put aside the worries of parenting for just a little while and celebrate something.

Dean shouldn’t be so excited, but that doesn’t stop him from doing exactly that.

**X**

Ben doesn’t have many friends under his belt, so it doesn’t come as a surprise to Dean that the kid just wants to do something fun with Krissy on his birthday. The chick is really Ben’s only buddy, but Ben doesn’t seem to mind, so Dean doesn’t worry about it. They take a little while to brainstorm – arcade, movies – but then Dean looks up fun shit to do nearby and discovers Schlitterbahn. It’s like…the Taj Mahal of water parks.

Schlitterbahn Kansas boasts the world’s tallest water slide, a lazy river, a pool with a bar in it, and it’s just a hop, skip and a jump away – in Kansas City.

When Dean suggests the idea to Ben, the excitement is palpable. And when Krissy gets in on it, she seems thrilled, too.

Dean isn’t sure how thrilled Cas’ll be at the prospect of parading two ten-year-olds around a chaotic water park smack-dab in the middle of June, but the dude already agreed to be there, and there’s no way in hell that Dean’s going to let him back out on this one. But to Dean’s equal parts surprise and joy, when he texts Cas to fill him in on the deets, Cas seems enthusiastic about a trip to the water park.

Turns out that Cas is a fucking thrill-seeker.

Of all the things that Dean expected out of hanging out with his social worker at an enormous water park, it was not that he would want to go on every gigantic water slide and towering attraction available. But, alas.

As soon as Dean, Ben and Krissy walk into the park and meet Cas, his first words are: “I would like to go on Verrückt.”

“The what?”

“The world’s tallest water slide, Dean,” Castiel says impatiently, “You’re the one that told me about it being here.”

“All right, sure. I’m not sure the kiddos are tall enough, though,” Dean says. He eyes the both of them. Neither Ben nor Krissy could be considered short for their age, he’s learned. Ben is taller than Krissy by maybe an inch or so, and apparently is the tallest kid in his class. Lisa was around average height for a woman – so Ben’s stature is something that he gets from dad. Dean smiles at that.

“I wanna go,” Ben says, “I’m tall enough!”

“Well, we’ll have to find that out,” Dean says, “First we gotta make sure everyone’s got sunscreen on, though.” He slings his backpack off of his shoulders and unzips it, rummaging through water bottles and snacks to get to a mostly-full bottle of Coppertone. He squeezes some in his palm and makes to rub it onto the back of Ben’s neck, but Ben jumps back.

“I can put it on by myself,” Ben insists.

“All right, but I still have to get your neck and back,” Dean says, and uses the sunscreen in his hand for his own arms as he adds, “And don’t forget to get your ears. You’ll regret it if you do.”

Ben rolls his eyes, so Dean rolls his eyes. For the most part Ben and Krissy do their own sunscreen – Ben asserts that he can get Krissy’s back and neck (“And _ears_ ,” added in a petulant tone). For a second Dean finds himself zoning out as he stares at his trio of companions, and before he can berate himself for having some kind of existential crisis in the middle of a water park, everything gets kind of surreal.

This is his life. He has two kids under his wing at a water park, and one of them is his own. Ben is shiny with grease from the sunscreen and has kiddie sunglasses on his face. A pattern of sharks rolls around the legs of his swim trunks, which they purchased only the day before when Ben realized that his old ones didn’t fit him anymore.

A hand lands on Dean’s shoulder and startles him out of his weird mind-fuck.

“Would you mind getting my back, Dean?” Castiel asks.

Oh, Christ on a cracker.

Jesus _spreadable_ Christ on a cracker.

It occurred to Dean shortly after he texted the birthday party plans to Castiel that going to a waterpark would probably involve shirtlessness on both of their ends. What he didn’t expect was for Cas to be so damn handsome under all the stuffy office wear and giant overcoat. Sure, yeah, he’s seen Cas in a t-shirt and jeans. That one time. Otherwise Cas has been dressed to kill in like, a thousand layers.

And hot damn if those layers concealed a bangable body. Tan skin and runner’s muscles rope up to broad shoulders and strong arms, then down to sturdy legs and –

“Are you wearing socks with sandals?” asks Dean.

Cas looks down. “I suppose I am,” he says, “Why?”

“ _Because_ ,” interjects Krissy, “you’re not _supposed_ to wear socks with sandals.”

“Hm,” Castiel says, and he kicks off his sandals and stoops to pull his socks off of his feet and stuff them into his own backpack. He eyes the children and asks, “Is that better?”

“Much better,” Krissy nods.

Without another word, Cas hands the sunscreen to Dean and turns. And, hell. His back is even better than the front. How is that possible?

Probably because there are fucking _wings_ on it.

“Dude,” Dean marvels, “Your tattoo is insane. It’s awesome.”

“Thank you,” Castiel says, throwing a glance over his shoulder, “Would you mind putting sunscreen on it so we can go on the waterslides?”

“Jeez, all right,” Dean says.

Cas is warm to the touch, skin smooth and muscles pliable. Up close, his tattoo looks even better. The wings aren’t just wings – they’re decorated. Thin ribbons tie tattooed charms into the feathers. Some, Dean recognizes: A pentacle, a cross, an anchor with some fish…he thinks most, if not all, are religious symbols. Some Dean has seen before but doesn’t know what they’re called. There’s that hand thing, for one, and that circle that looks like a wheel on a pirate ship.

A cough sounds behind them.

Both Dean and Castiel turn. Krissy has her hands on her hips, and Ben has his arms folded across his chest.

“He- _llo._ Why are you weirdos looking at each other so funny? Let’s go,” Ben says.

“All right, all right,” Dean says, and waves a hand at his kid. He finishes up the job, wishing he had more time to map the lines of ink fanning over Castiel’s skin. He has just enough time to skim his eyes over the length of the wings again to see that there are feathers falling from the wings…and one of them is halfway into Cas’s swim trunks.

Dean breaks himself away and has Cas do his own sunscreen. He tries not to think about the feel of Cas’s long fingers on his shoulders, or think about what those long fingers would feel like if they edged underneath Dean’s swimsuit.

The kids make a point of interrupting again, and yeah, Dean needed the interruption. This day isn’t about his pent-up man-crush on his social worker, it’s about his son’s birthday. He needs to get his shit together. There’s a time and place for checking out hot dudes for extended periods of time, and right now is not the time.

The place…maybe.

Turns out that Ben and Krissy are both tall enough to ride Verrückt, although by the skin of their teeth. Each raft in the ride has only three spots, and being that the waterslide is over one hundred and fifty feet tall, Dean happily volunteers to wait for the three of them while they ride the ride. Which, as it turns out, requires you to reserve a time to ride since the thing is so swamped with people.

That’s fine and dandy by Dean. He can handle the smaller slides, but really he just wants to float along in the lazy river.

For a couple of hours they wait in lines and ride through slides. It’s more fun than Dean expected it to be, since heights are not his favorite. He can handle the tree in the backyard, but a beast of a slide that you go bulleting down? Yeah, maybe not.

After the third time down the Cyclone, Dean’s starting to wear down. He grabs his backpack and almost reaches for his wallet before he remembers the handy wristbands they all get (Splash Cash, or something like that. They’re bracelets that you can wear around and load with money). He says, “Okay, I think you two are old enough to run around on your own for a little. Your wristbands are for food or games or whatever. Ben, I’m gonna give you my phone. If you need us, call Cas. His cell number is in there.”

“Cool,” Ben says, and stuffs Dean’s cellphone into his own backpack, “Thanks, Dean.”

“No problem, squirt,” Dean says.

As Dean watches the kids run off back in the direction of the Cyclone line, he turns and points a finger at Cas. “You,” he says, “and me are going to go on the Fun Cats.”

Castiel eyes Dean and protests, “But I like the slides.”

“Yeah, and we’ve been on like a billion slides now,” Dean says, “It’s my turn to choose.”

It should be strange how easily the teasing and bickering comes to them, but instead, it just feels right to mess around with Cas. It feels like something clicking into place, something good. Something light. And if that something makes Dean stand a little bit too close to Castiel to be casual, then so be it.

The Fun Cats are right up Dean’s alley. It’s almost like a lazy river, except you get to chill on a comfy raft thing around the park and just relax.

“This is the stuff,” Dean says. They’ve only been on the thing for a minute or so, and he’s in heaven.

Castiel sighs and says, “I suppose it’s not as boring as I feared it would be.”

“Probably because you have this hot piece of ass to look at.” Uh. Wait, did that come out of Dean’s mouth?

From the choked sound that Castiel makes, he’s pretty sure he did actually say that out loud.

Time to change the subject before this gets any more out of hand.

“So, uh,” Dean asks, “What’s your tattoo all about? It seems kinda, um. Religious.”

“It is,” Castiel says, “I incorporated the symbols of many religions. I think, if I didn’t become a social worker, I may have become a student of theology. I find it fascinating.”

“I had no idea you even had a tattoo.”

“Most people don’t,” Castiel answers, and turns to gaze at Dean with his lips quirked up halfway.

They fall silent. Dean tries to come up with something to say next, but nothing surfaces. He just keeps looking at Cas, and Cas just keeps looking at him. Dude’s got some of the prettiest freakin’ eyes that Dean has ever seen on a human, so blue they could just swallow you up. Before he knows what’s happening, Dean starts to lean in to Cas’s body heat. He can smell his soap. His shampoo.

Castiel lifts his hand and, tentative, rests it against the blade of Dean’s jaw.

Oh, crap.

Dean jerks back.

“Damn it,” he says out loud.

“At least I know it’s not unrequited,” Castiel murmurs beside him, “Though we can’t do this. Not while I’m working with you and Ben.”

“What about after?” Dean asks.

Castiel makes a thoughtful noise and says, “Perhaps.”

**X**

After getting off of the Fun Cats, Dean stays a safer distance away from Cas, far enough that he can’t feel the heat on his hands or smell sunscreen and shampoo, or catch a glimpse of ink every once in a while. But, he does humor Cas and they indulge in a couple more of the fast rides before it’s Dean’s turn again – and obviously, he chooses to hit Henry’s Hideout, an enormous heated pool in the center of the fun that has places to sit in the water and a swim-up bar.

Dean definitely needs the beer that he orders.

He almost brings up the Fun Cats incident, but before he has a chance to open his yapper, a shout of “Dean!” has both Cas and Dean turning their heads. Ben and Krissy step into the pool and wade to them. Both of them are soaking wet already with big, wide grins on their faces.

“What’s up?” Dean asks.

“We kind of spent our wristband money on games,” Ben says, “and now we’re hungry.”

“I’m a little hungry myself,” Castiel hums behind him.

“Why don’t we all grab a little something to eat?” Dean says. He finishes the last of his beer and they surface together.

The consensus on food is to head to the White Water Grill, even though they have to wait a little bit for a place to sit. The food isn’t spectacular but Krissy and Ben don’t mind some middle-grade pizza, and this day’s about them. Neither Dean nor Cas has used any money loaded onto their wristbands yet – they end up bickering at the end of the meal over who will pay, and then just split it when they can’t come to a decision.

From there the four of them head to their scheduled ride on Verrückt, or rather, Cas and the kids do. Dean takes the opportunity to snag a bench and thumb through his phone while he watches everyone’s stuff.

_2:13 Mom: How’s the birthday celebration going?_

Dean smiles. He knows his mom is probably worrying way too much about today going right. Not that he has any room to talk, since he worried at least three times as much before they pulled into the parking lot. And why wouldn’t they worry? This is Ben’s first birthday as one of the Winchester clan.

Dean knows his mom worries because they didn’t have the means for elaborate birthday parties when he and Sam were little. She always made homemade cakes and decorated them herself, and they didn’t have streamers or party favors or anything that other kids had. Presents from family were limited, and since neither Dean nor Sam were skilled at making friends, so were gifts from that area, too.

                _3:04 Dean: so good so far. kids did their own thing for a while_

_3:05 Mom: What did you and Castiel do?_

_3:05 Dean: i made him go on the slow stuff. he’s w the kids on the giant slide now_

_3:05 Mom: I like Castiel. He’s a nice man._

A crooked smile lifts Dean’s lips before he can help it. His mom mostly knows about Cas from all of Dean’s stories and fretting about getting things right so that he doesn’t get his kid taken away from him – and because Cas called her when he was trying to find Dean to begin with, way back when this whole _thing_ started.

                _3:06 Dean: he tried to pay for lunch_

_3:06 Mom: Of course he did._

_3:06 Mom: Why don’t you invite him to come to the July 4BBQ? Assuming he doesn’t have other plans._

_3:07 Dean: yeah ok. good idea_

_3:08 Mom: Text me when you get home. I have presents for Ben. Now stop talking to your mom and go have fun._

_3:08 Dean: yeah yeah_

Dean flicks out of his text messages and pulls up Candy Crush to kill time while he waits for his crew. They show up at his bench only a few minutes later, drenched and all grinning like they won the lottery.

“I guess it was fun?”

“It was so awesome,” Ben says, “It was the best. Can we go on the Cyclone again?”

“Sure, kid,” Dean says.

For the rest of the day, up until the park closes, the four of them run around, waiting in lines and whirling down slides. For a while, Dean even convinces them all to chill in the lazy river, though that ends up being a bust when Cas gets into a splash fight with the kids and Dean becomes a casualty.

The important thing is that Ben has a smile on his face the whole time. Few times has Dean seen his son as happy as he’s been today, and damn if that isn’t rewarding. Cas told him that they needed to give Ben a good birthday, and he thinks that they may have just pulled it off.

Even once they leave the gates of the waterpark, they linger outside. Krissy presents a rectangular present wrapped in rainbow-striped giftwrap, under which is a Harry Potter lego set that Ben seems over the moon about and asks Dean to help him put together when they get back home. Dean agrees, of course.

At the outer lip of the parking lot, Dean stops Cas with a touch of his hand to his wrist and says, “Hey. Thanks for coming today. I think it meant a lot to Ben, and I know it meant a lot to me.” He doesn’t add anything else that he thinks, like how maybe they shouldn’t have jerked back from each other on the Fun Cats and who cares about rules, anyway?

A soft smile slides into place and Cas says back, “I’m glad that you invited me. It was a good day,” and then turns to Ben to say, “Happy Birthday, Ben. You must feel old being in the double-digits now.”

“I guess so,” shrugs Ben, “but I have to wait _all the way to a hundred_ until I’m not double-digits.”

“What if you don’t live ‘til a hundred?” asks Krissy.

“I will so,” Ben says, “I’m gonna live to be like a billion.”

“That’s impossible.”

“Says you.”

Dean chuckles and shakes his head. He reaches over and squeezes Cas’s shoulder. He says, “So, uh, my mom extended an invite for you to come to our Fourth of July B-B-Q. I don’t want you to feel like you have to be there or anything, but, y’know. It’s a blast.”

“I’d love to come,” answers Cas.

“Cool. Great. Awesome,” responds Dean, “Well. I guess I’ll talk to you later? Have a good night, dude.”

“You as well, Dean.”

With that they part, and Dean and the kids head for the Impala. He makes both of them towel dry another time just in case, and even then, he still tucks towels over the backseat and driver’s side. The sun begins to set as Dean starts his baby up and they pull out of the lot, crawling along in the line of other park-goers heading back home for the night. Behind him, Ben and Krissy continue their debate over how long Ben will live.

It’s pleasant white noise to add to the quiet roll of the radio, but the kids’ voices fall to the wayside as Dean’s thoughts drift back to Cas. God, this shouldn’t be as hard as it is. He’s got a feeling that his mom knows exactly what she’s doing by inviting Castiel to the barbecue. She knows Dean likes his guys almost as much as he likes his girls. Dad knows, too, though whether he’s decided to acknowledge that has yet to be seen.

Dean hasn’t spoken to his dad in a long-ass time.

Sam has, even. It should be weird that Sam is the one willing to mend fences with John when during adolescence he was the troublemaker and Dean an obedient little soldier, but somehow it isn’t. Somehow Dean’s devotion to his dad unraveled and his trust got stomped all over. His rose-tinted glasses are off, even more so since Ben’s been in his life.

Christ, John was a shitty parent. At the time that Dean was a kid it didn’t feel that way. He thought that his dad was trying his best and that Sam was being a brat about everything.

Turns out Dean might have had blinders on.

His mind wanders back and forth between thoughts good and bad, of his father and drinking and the rehab, and then back to Cas and his long fingers and the barbecue just a couple weeks away. In almost no time, Dean finds the Impala pulling up to the curb outside of Krissy’s house. She grabs her bag and says goodbye to Ben, tells him happy birthday and then closes the car door.

On her porch, she waves at them, and then lets herself inside.

Once the front door closes behind Krissy, Dean pulls forward and does a U-turn to get out of the cul-de-sac.

Maybe thirty seconds into the short drive home, Ben pipes up, “Do you like Castiel?”

Dean’s intestines tie themselves into knots. He coughs and replies, “Yeah, a’course I like Cas.”

In the rearview mirror Dean watches Ben make a _you’re so dumb_ face and say back, “Not like that, stupid. I think you have a big fat crush.”

Dean turns around to cast a warning glare back there.

“Hey!” he says, “No name-calling. And for your information, that’s none of your business, bucko.”

Ben laughs.

A beat later: “ _Dean and Castiel kissing in a tree. K-I-S-S-I-N-G. First comes love, then comes marriage…_ ”

Dean lifts his eyes skyward and groans.


End file.
